


Bitter

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, Teen for the themes, a/o/b dynamics, more tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 43,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omega John Watson murdered his husband, Nathaniel Drake, when he was sixteen. Eight years later, John is twenty four with no prospects (omegas are property, after all) when he is challenged to spend time with Sherlock Holmes, on the wager that John will stay.<br/>Summary a work in progress. I almost always change it later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

JOHN WATSON

 

His history is mundane, for an omega. He married when he was fourteen, was pregnant that same year (and on his first heat, no less) and was quickly saddled with the pains of having a child far too early (you’re supposed to wait, but no one does, anymore). It’s when he miscarried that depression sunk him to the edge of death (again, common) and he couldn’t take being taken or even having a heat. His husband took him to doctor after doctor, and they all said the same thing: John was most likely permanently damaged, and wouldn’t be able to have children for at least a decade, if not more.

After the best doctor in the country- nay, all Europe- told Nathaniel Drake this, the violence started. The hope of a cure had, after all, done nothing. It had either turned John into a screaming, sobbing ball of terrified omega, or it had made him a vegetable. Either way, the meds and pills didn’t work. The therapy didn’t work. The lack of sex didn’t work, either. Neither had the platonic cuddling or any other soft handedness. John was broken. There wasn’t any fixing.

The first blow came as they were in their hotel room. It was the last one John and Nathaniel would be staying in. That was the last doctor. That was the last repeated verdict. There was no need to be gentle anymore because it wouldn’t fix John. A month before John’s sixteenth birthday, in the middle of their hotel room, John, hands shaking from his latest medication, had dropped a bottle of water. It was open, and spilled all over the soft, vanilla carpet.

A smack across the cheek sent John sideways and earned him a cut behind his ear where he hit the edge of the low coffee table. It was the first and, though Nathaniel swore up and down that it would be the only one as he saw to John’s head and kissed his silky short hair, it wasn’t the last, either. It was the beginning of the end.

All of this is mundane for omegas that get sold into marriage too early and have a child, a miscarriage, and a subsequent mind break. It happens to a lot of omegas. It’s been accepted, for all it isn’t spoken of in polite society.

What isn’t mundane is what happened next. Six months after John’s sixteenth birthday- it was hard to enjoy it, when John already recognized the signs of a life of abuse as Nathaniel’s punching bag- Nathaniel had a hard day and it left John with an assorted number of bruises and scratches, a broken nose, a black eye, a sore, bleeding ass, and a long cut across the middle of his thigh. He called Mike, who patched him up in the bathroom, put John to bed, and tried to figure out a way to help his friend.

By the time Mike met the tall, silver-eyed solution, John had, in a fit of terror and self defense, killed Nathaniel by breaking one of his shot glasses on the alpha’s eye. He called an emergency ambulance, and John was prosecuted for second degree murder, despite the overwhelming evidence of continued abuse, and sentenced to twenty five years in prison.

That’s the abnormal part. It’s not even that John fought back; it’s that he managed to kill Nathaniel and then not die via having his bond broken. Anyways, John was sentenced twenty five to life, but eight years to the day, on Tuesday, September the Sixth, 2015, John stepped through the outer prison gates. At twenty four years old, he may have once had his whole life ahead of him. Everyone knows, though, that he’s a murdering, broken omega. He’ll be lucky if a gas station takes him.

With no clothes that actually fit him anymore, John takes himself to a thrift shop at three in the afternoon. An hour later, he’s got two sets of clothing- one of which he’s wearing, the second in a backpack- a combination lock, and roughly fifty dollars left. He’s figured out where a gym is and, with the last of his money, buys a year long, twenty four hour membership. He’s got five dollars left, he’s starved, and he needs a job, a blanket, and a place to sleep. But he’s got the gym for now, so he’s not too badly off.

At eight in the evening, John beds down in front of his locker and closes his eyes, still hungry, but not quite as bad as he could be. His leg still hurts though.

This is just the beginning.

 


	2. Mike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Mike Stamford and his plotting ways.

Mike Stamford is a renowned beta doctor, and he often makes house calls for his friends and family. This is why he hates having omega friends, because their inherent slavery wears heavily on his soul. The weightiest of all, though, is John Watson. That kid was sixteen, and Mike in his residential period at Bart’s hospital when Mike got a call the night it all started crumbling down.

The both of them were lucky that Mike was off shift.

Some years later, Mike’s quite a bit bigger, width wise, and John’s got a reputation as one of the toughest inmates in his jail. A tall, alpha menace begins taking up a laboratory every now in then. It’s easy to see the kid (Mike calls him a kid, but he’s really not, just like John’s really not) isn’t like other alphas. He doesn’t have that aggressive, violent streak. He does, Mike knows, it’s just highly controlled. That control, as he listens to his history being repeated back to him (god, the way Sherlock says it, Mike feels like he’s led a boring life. He doesn’t take it to heart, though. Everyone’s led a boring life, in Sherlock’s silver eyes.), is what prompts Mike to hang around him. Sherlock is, essentially, acidic to the core, but not random.

Mike thinks about John as he listens to Sherlock. No, intellectually, Sherlock has left John (and everyone else…) in the dust, but Mike has a feeling that the two of them would hit it off, if John is mentally capable, anyways. He’s also in prison, but from the way Sherlock talks about his cases, Mike gets the feeling that releasing John could be a cinch, with the right mind wrapped around it.

“Oi, Sherlock, you still looking for a roommate?”

“There is no one you know that would be a good roommate for me, Mike.” That flat tone doesn’t chase Mike of the way it once did.

“Yeah, but I know someone who might do. The only problem is, he’s in prison.” At this, Sherlock glances up at Mike, eyes already assessing everything he can about this person.

“Why do you think this omega of yours is going to work?” Still with that voice. Mike, though, will not be deterred. This is his one shot of saving John from the remaining years of prison.

“Because he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, and he won’t be looking for a mate. Not only that, but he’ll stick around. He’s loyal like that, if you treat him right.”

“What constitutes right?”

“Keep your hands, you eyes, and your ruts to yourself, and the two of you will get along just fine.” Sherlock’s nose wrinkles at the mention of ruts. God, how he hates those things. He used to have them every month, but as the biological side of him learned that the mental side of him just wasn’t going to give in, he started having them less and less. He’s twenty two, now, and his once monthly, weeklong ruts have gone down to three-day, twice yearly ones. He can just take himself off somewhere when they happen. Lord knows he never took a rut around anyone else before.

“One more thing, Sherlock. He killed his last mate, so it would be best to be careful. I don’t know where he is mentally, but he can’t be good.”

“Bring me his case file, and I’ll see what I can do.” Sherlock says quietly, almost to himself. Mike hears it, though, and an hour later, Sherlock is staring down at the mug shot of John Watson, twenty four year old omega, currently residing in prison for the second degree murder of Nathaniel Drake. Even though it’s obvious the man’s been abused and probably raped, there’s no mention of anything but a troubled, but peaceful marriage. Sherlock shakes his head at the audacity of all involved. Money always looks good on paper.

By the time Sherlock is done, though, no one will look good in  the papers. He wraps up his experiment, turning all he’s deduced about John Watson and his court case over in his mind. They won’t rescind the hearing. Not when Mr. Drake was so kind to his fragile, unstable husband, so he’ll have to call in a favor, or two.

 

HOURS LATER

 

“Yes.” The one word is enough for Mycroft to know that his brother means it.

“And one more thing, brother mine.”

“Why do you care?” Sherlock’s already guessed that Mycroft wants to know why this convict has caught Sherlock’s eye.

“Oh, I’m only going to lose a murderer onto London’s streets so that you can run around with him.”

“Self-defense, Mycroft.”

“Yes. Defense that ended with one of the strongest alphas I’ve ever seen dead on the floor with a shot glass for an eye.” Mycroft is, of course well within his right to worry. He wasn’t exaggerating about Nathaniel Drake. The abusive little fucker was powerful, and the fact that a run-of-the-mill, sixteen year old, under aged omega managed to kill him put said omega on Mycroft’s list of people to watch.

“Because he sounds interesting.” Sherlock says, almost to himself in the soft, leather back seat of one of Mycroft’s shiny black cars. Mycroft, mollified for now, opens his brief case and hands Sherlock the files of a couple of active serial killers. He has no doubt that the men will soon be found, as they are escalating, but he just needs it to happen quickly. His queen is rather worried about these two.

Sherlock accepts them, seeing them as no more than a trivial price for John Watson.

 

JOHN WATSON

 

It’s weird not having the threat of medication over his head. Any time he got too out of control or, as the guards learned him and his behaviors, statuesque, they shot him full of something. He’d come back to himself hours later, staring at his cell, or a padded wall.

The first few years of his imprisonment, his heats ran fast and strong, racking him once monthly, then semi monthly, then every three months, four, twice yearly, and finally, just once yearly. He has yet to have this year’s heat. He supposes he should be grateful that he got sent to one of those prisons that have to look good. Otherwise, he could have found himself bonded more than once. Mostly he’s just tired of the whole issue.

He feels the acute absence of the drugs when the locker room begins to fill with alphas, all of which can smell that, biologically, he’s of no use, and so ignore him. John leaves the locker room with the five dollars in his pocket and goes to find his friend.

Maybe, just maybe, Stamford, being the only one of his friends that didn’t turn tail at the sight of the late Mr. Drake, could help him. It’s stretching, John knows. No one wanted him when he made a pretty, respectable picture.  It’s worth the try, though. Just as fighting back was worth the try, even if it did net him a twenty five year sentence, though he’s only served eight years of that, and he has to check in with his probation officer.

John takes himself down the street, seeking the familiar Bart’s hospital. As part of their pretty picture, Nathaniel wanted John further educated, so that his under aged omega wouldn’t be like all the other under aged omegas. No, in polite society, slaves are educated beyond the seventh grade, which is when he caught Nathaniel’s eye, and was made to stand buck naked before the man at twelve years old, before he swept out as coldly as he had swept in.

Another rule is that John had to be fourteen. So Nathaniel, after a couple more visits, stuck a silver ring on John’s left finger, kissed his forehead, and gently took catalogue of the bruises John had been too skittish to speak of. He caught every one of John’s lies over where the bruises had come from. Soon after, John’s father learned to control himself, while John began going to a private school, and was enrolled in a program designed to elevate him belong the normal scope of learning, while also finding what John wanted to be.

All this, this untamed flow of knowledge being shoved into John’s brain, made the omega wild for learning. He overtook the program a year before he was “of age”. He wasn’t as uneducated as many of the kids going through this program. Soon, he left the school for Bart’s. There, he was stuck with a beta residential student to quickly teach him everything he needed to know. He sucked it up.

Punctuating all this was the big man with the walnut colored skin and very big hands. He had introduced himself as Nathaniel Drake, and he had said that John must learn etiquette along with how to use a needle to suture flesh. So, though the visits made him uncomfortable and scared (he was so big) John employed all the manners Harry had told him to use but never used herself, and quickly mastered the nuances of aristocracy. This made Nathanial happy. John never saw what lurked underneath, simply because he had never provoked it.

John had aspired to be a doctor. This is what he’d been working towards ever since the day the once twelve year old had been giving an evaluation test in the posh, small classroom with the lovely windows overlooking the lawn his first day at his new school. The day after his wedding Medical books took up what time wasn’t devoted to Nathaniel himself.  Indeed, he never forgot to attend his alpha, knowing full well that Nathaniel’s treatment outside his heat would determine what would happen inside of it.

He was right. John can remember the day Nathaniel had tipped his head back so that the alpha’s nose could take in the smell of John’s glands, hand resting around his thigh. That was the first time he ever flinched back away from Nathaniel. Heats were bad. Every omega knew that.  Every-

John looks up to see Bart’s in view. He heads across the campus, looking for that familiar, maybe semi-friendly face.

“John! John Watson!” The call has John’s head whipping around, and- yes that’s him.  Don’t panic, John \- turns to walk towards Mike Stamford. He does his best to smile when he reaches his fat friend. He doesn’t succeed. The thin mouth tightens- pulled wider for just a moment- before falling back to stone.

“Are you okay, mate?” John shrugs, unwilling to elaborate.

“You looking for a place to stay?” Mike’s eyes shine with an idea. John looks at him warily.

“What have you got planned?”

“Oh, I met this guy a while back. He’s an acidic bastard, but he won’t touch you.” John narrows his eyes.

“You’re talking about an alpha.”

“Yes, but he’s not like other alphas.”

“I’m not staying with an alpha.”

“You can’t stay in a shelter, or by yourself, or with a beta and hope to be left alone. You’ll be easy any other way.”

“Mike, I have had enough of alphas. I’m not staying with one.”

“Come on, John, I’m trying to help you.” John can’t respond to that, because he doesn’t know if he’s angry at Mike for leaving him there, or if he’s grateful for his help. It gets confusing.

“What about a wager?” A deep, smooth, bass voice says from behind the two of them. John whirls around in a hurry, ready to turn away the alpha behind him. He catalogues Sherlock like he did back in prison, when new guys could come and think that John’s ass was theirs for the taking.

Tall, maybe six feet.

Black hair, silver eyes.

Pale skin, dramatic, dark clothing.

Heavy coat- belstaff.

Handsome, intelligent, cold.

Calm, cool, collected.

John watches warily. This, right here, is an alpha if he ever saw one.

“What wager?” Sherlock smiles slightly. It’s more smirk than anything.

“Spend a week in my flat. If you like it, you can stay. If you don’t, I’ll find you your own place, and never bother you again. All this is annulled, of course, if I don’t keep to myself.” It is too good. No alpha makes so generous a deal. Even an alpha that doesn’t smell ripe. But John has always been competitive. His omega mates would tell anyone that, had they stuck around (John can’t blame them for not doing so). He looks at the extended, gloved hand.

He finds himself shaking it.

“Deal.” Mike, watching the two of them, can already see the two of them getting into fights with each other. He sends up a quick prayer that they don’t turn deadly, but then allows himself to smile. This might just work.


	3. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's first case.

JOHN WATSON

 

It’s three in the morning during John’s first night in Sherlock’s flat, and he’s playing the violin downstairs. This, and this alone, is reason enough for any other omega to leave, but it’s not good enough for John. That’s the whole reason why this wager works between the two of them. John doesn’t give a fuck about mess or noise. Prison has destroyed all his scruples.

John turns over and stares at the wall. It’s a far cry from a jail cell or a locker room floor, and it’s making John nervous to actually sleep in a bed again. Quietly, John moves to the floor, taking nothing with him, and lies with his ear pressed to the floor, listening to the violin’s sound and feeling its vibrations.

It makes him feel at least a little bit better, to know he’s not the only freak in the world. It’s good to know that the only other one’s challenged him to stay. John falls asleep face down on the floor, listening to Sherlock play.

Downstairs, Sherlock smiles and lets his music taper off. John will stay with him. Now, he can tell Ms. Hudson that his roommate’s staying, so she doesn’t have to worry anymore. He does so at seven in the morning, over tea, before John wakes up.

At eight thirty one, John makes his way down the stairs and watches Sherlock for a moment, before moving to make tea. Shit, he hasn’t had tea in so long. His hands start to shake for a moment. The last time he had tea was with Nathaniel. He killed Nathaniel. John turns his eyes downwards to his bare hands. Then he shakes himself, and goes on making tea for the first time in eight years.

Sherlock, watching John, sees the whole thing, though the semi-doctor isn’t faced towards the detective. Sherlock’s phone chimes. He picks it up, unlocks it, and looks at the text.

 

8:32

Up for a case? –GL

 

Sherlock looks at John. It only takes him a moment to decide.

“John.” John turns to look at Sherlock.

“Want to do something fun?” The challenge in his words can’t be ignored. John, however, is suspicious.

“What kind of fun?”

“I’m a consulting detective- the only one in the world- and I’ve a case this morning.”

“Why are you inviting me?”

“If you’re trying to determine if you’ll stay, you may as well get the full experience.” John cocks his head to the side, dark gaze on Sherlock’s face.

“Alright, then.”

 

8:33

That depends, is it interesting, or just confusing? -SH

8:33

It’s the one that’s been in the news. –GL

8:33

Might be a bit later than usual. –SH

8:34

           Why? –GL

           8:34

           You’ll see. –SH

Sherlock puts his phone in his pocket and goes to get dressed. Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock’s striped pajamas, bathrobe, and bed head have all been traded for dark slacks, a purple button down, black dress shoes, his belstaff, and a tamed version of his hair.

As John puts on the second pair of clothing he picked up at the thrift shop, the coat he was wearing yesterday (it has patches in the elbows), Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and picks up his phone.

 

8:50

The first is in Westchester, and the second in Sussex. –SH

8:54

Thank you, brother mine. –MH

8:55

Enjoying yourself yet? –MH

8:55

Why? –SH

8:57

Murderers usually aren’t your crowd, Sherlock. –MH

8:57

Nathaniel had it coming. –SH

8:58

Is that why the newspapers have an interesting amount of slander concerning the Drake family? Because Nathaniel had it coming? –MH

8:59

Sooner or later, they’ll interfere. I’d rather have a base to work with this time. –SH

9:00

And here I thought you’d deleted everything that has to do with slander and reputation-burning. These pieces are relatively well done. Nice job, brother mine. –MH

9:02

Of course I didn’t delete it. It’s just boring. –SH

9:03

           Everything’s boring to you. Except for John. –MH

           9:04

           Maybe. –SH

Sherlock stows his phone once more as John comes down stairs, looking considerably fresher, if sleepless, than he did when he went upstairs. The two of them descend the stairs outside the flat, make their way through Speedy’s, where an egg and ham croissant thingy is pressed into John’s hands, and a to go cup of tea into Sherlock’s, and out of the door.

Free of Ms. Hudson, who, on giving them their second thing to eat that day, told them that she isn’t “their housekeeper” (John’s fine with this. He hasn’t had a house to keep in years. He has the feeling that he’s losing the bet), Sherlock becomes a little more guarded. It is as though the beta woman they just left is his sole mediator between Sherlock and everyone else. It wouldn’t surprise John if that’s really the case. She seems to have a way with the alpha.

A cab picks them up, and Sherlock leans forwards to give the address.

“So what’s this case of yours?” John asks. He’s fresh out of prison for killing a man. He hasn’t the faintest idea what’s what these days.

“There’s been a rash of suicides, all of which were committed via poison of the same kind.” John’s quiet. He thinks about Harry, and what their dad said to her when he found out she was gay. He said some nasty things to her. Despite the increasingly desolate, decaying state the alcohol and the loss of his wife had brought on, his opinion meant a great deal to Harry, and his sister’s easy going attitude and “it’s all right” bravado had cracked down the middle.

She nearly killed herself that night. She would have, too, if John hadn’t shoved away his fears about being an omega and sat there all night, letting himself be hugged by his sister. The next evening, John helped Harry carry the last of her boxes out to Clara’s car and wished her well. He never told her about how abandoned he had felt that day, and every day after. He was ten then, and Harry seventeen, going on eighteen in a week’s time.

Suicide, John knows, is nothing to joke about.

“Stop that.” John glances at Sherlock, displeased at having his thoughts interrupted. It’s hard for him to think of Harry, nowadays. Has been for years.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking. I can practically smell the sadness on you.” John bristles at that. He knows that Sherlock’s the smartest person he’s ever met. Hell, even Nathaniel, for all he was an adept learner and manipulator, was a distant, distant second to Sherlock’s mind.

“Well, I suppose you’ll just have to block it out, then.” The flat tone of John’s voice brokers no argument. Sherlock, sensing that anything he says is going to be taken with a grain of salt, at this point, settles for deducing the hell out of John’s thoughts. He lets a beat of silence go by.

“Who is it?”

“Who is what?”

“It’s not your father. You wouldn’t be so sad, if it was your father. Mum’s dead, but she didn’t kill herself. Sister then. What did she do?”

“Why do you want to know?” Oh, lovely. Sherlock smiles internally. Mike, apparently, has excellent tastes, for all being friends with John pained him.

“Just curious.” Sherlock looks sharply out of the window as the car stops.

“We’re here.” Sherlock pays the driver as John climbs out, leaving the door open for Sherlock. As the detective looks around himself, already deducing, John takes in the scene.

Past the yellow police tape and a swarming ant colony of officers, there’s a building that used to be nice. The yawning doorway and strong old walls make up a townhouse. John can tell, simply by the fact that it’s still standing, that the building was built when things were made to last. What was once something elegant and strong is now marred by murder.

John follows Sherlock mutely as the detective walks with a swagger Nathaniel would have killed to possess. As Sherlock lifts the bright yellow police barrier for John to duck under, they are held up by a woman. John, as always, takes her in under the grey morning light.

Brown skin.

Loosely curling long, brown hair.

Handsome face (not beautiful, but just perching on the cusp of it)

Mildly tall.

Alpha.

Detective. Aggressive. Defensive.

“Hullo, Freak. Who’s this?”

Irritating.

“A colleague. Doctor Watson.” They had, in prison, allowed him to continue his studies. After all, what prison would look good by turning an omega into the streets with no profession and no opportunities, accept for a whorehouse. No one, after all, wants to deal with the shitstorm that would occur, should anyone develop a grudge against that particular facility.

John simply nods his head, watching this woman’s nostrils flare slightly. She could smell the broken on him, then.

Her pupils don’t retract or expand. That’s a good sign. It means that she’s unaffected.

“This is Sally Donovan.” Sherlock says to John. This Donovan person sticks her hand out, and John just cocks an eyebrow and looks at it; a clear warning that touching is off limits. The hand drops. It’s a breach in etiquette to try and shake an omega’s hand if the omega doesn’t initiate it. At least, it was in Nathaniel’s world. It happened to John all the time outside of it. All that stopped with the silver band, though.

Sherlock sweeps past Donovan and into the house, only to be met by another alpha.

Caucasian, black hair, mildly tall.

“Anderson.”

Irritating.

“Why are you here?”

Offensive.

“To juggle watermelons and dance the polka.” Sherlock’s sarcasm is, as John suspected, on point today.

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Sherlock, apparently of the opinion that the conversation is over, sweeps up the weathered, wooden stairs to the second floor. A third alpha stops him at the second and last landing.

“Sherlock.”

“Lestrade.” Silver fox. Taller than Anderson, shorter than Sherlock, mild mannered, respectful, patient (has to be, John reckons.), Caucasian, easy going, worried.

“Body’s this way.” Lestrade glances at John.

“Who’s this?”

“John Watson, colleague.” Then they’re past them all and in the room. John can’t help but notice that every alpha they talked to or passed by either opened their mouths or flared their nostrils, with the exception of Lestrade. John decides that he understands where Sherlock’s clear impatience with the lot of them comes from.

The room they are in is like every other room in the house; old, built well, weathered, abandoned, little or no furniture (the former, in this case), and clearly uncared for. The difference of course, is that, in the middle of the room, a woman lays face down, dead for hours and wearing, of all things, an unfortunately bright shade of pink. John can’t help but think she looks like a glowing bottle of pepto bismol. Then he shuts that train of thought down.

There’s no need to laugh about the dead. Even if they brought it on themselves, one shouldn’t laugh over the dead.

**  
  
**


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't like what I have to post, but I do have something, so here it is. They are John and Nathaniel.

[ ](http://imgur.com/Y5OIApr)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	5. The Ins and Outs of Cases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mycroft, kills a man, and winds up highly amused.

John has decided he doesn’t fucking like Mycroft, simply because he’s decided that abduction is the best way to talk to John. When he gets back to 221B, he’s going to rip Sherlock a new one. Or, maybe not, depending on whether or not that git is deep in his own thoughts. John learned a long time ago that talking to anyone when there in that kind of zone is like beating one’s head up against a brick wall- stupid.

“I’ll pay you.” John snaps back to reality on that sentence, and tries to remember what the bastard just said thirty seconds ago. Suddenly, John feels the way he felt when he first met Nathaniel- without a choice. The infinitely more uncomfortable road of staying with his father had been presented to him as it was- belittling. Then, alongside his insignificant little existance, Nathaniel offered something more. He was classy, born and bred. He didn’t hit omegas. He held the door- every door- for them. It was so special to be Nathaniel Drake’s spouse that John hadn’t thought twice about his size or his agenda. Then he had to pay the price. He made the wrong choice, all those years ago. It’s given him a deep distaste for being bought.

“Piss yourself.” John turns and starts walking away. He has places to be, and he needs to figure out who and what Sherlock does, because he’s not doing this again.

“You’re very loyal, very fast.” Mycroft’s voice muses at his thrift-store-clothed back. John keeps moving. Maybe he is loyal, or maybe he’s in it for his own sake. Either way, he won’t be bought again.

…

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“Who’s Mycroft?” Sherlock sits up quickly and looks at John, automatically checking for any sign that John had caved.

“Oh, an enemy of mine.”

“Yeah, a concerned enemy, got it. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I know how they died.”

“Who’s Mycroft?”

“Did he try to bribe you?”

“Good god.” John mutters under his breath and then refuses to answer. He will not be the one giving out the answers here.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Pity, we could have split the results.” John just stares at Sherlock. It’s not an incredulous stare, more of a “not today” stare. Sherlock goes back to his… patches? John resolves to ask about that later. He won’t be getting distracted today.

“Look what I found.” Sherlock sounds oddly childish as he abruptly points to his chair, John looks and, with a little trepidation, flicks the ragged, old blanket off of it to reveal a pink case, still in the same unfortunate color of the- what had Sherlock said?- news anchor.

“Are you going to tell me where you found this?” John was supposed to have a child eight years ago. He feels like a damn quasi-parent now.

“Oh, a dumpster.” Sherlock says it offhandedly, like people who live in flats like this and insult officers without paying for it actually dumpster dive. People like John dumpster dive.

“Elaborate…?”

“Well, the killer left her at Lauriston Gardens, which is somewhere she never should have been. She was staying in London for one night, so she should have had an overnight bag. She was alone, so there are two places the overnight bag could be- with her or with her killer. The killer wouldn’t keep something that incriminating. He couldn’t even pass it off as his own bag, because the color is audacious, to say the least. So, he had to have thrown it out. He would have done it as soon as possible. It took me less than an hour.” Sherlock abruptly shuts down again, but John’s fine with it. He thinks their developing a routine. He knows he’s losing the bet. He finds he doesn’t mind.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s a number on a piece of paper under my phone. I want you to send a text.” John just watches him for a moment, then reminds himself he can’t be too rigid. He picks up the phone, and enters in the number.

“What do I write?” Sherlock gives the barest hint of a smile. He knows he’s won this round.

“‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens?’” John taps it out and sends it. Then he makes a note that if Sherlock cared enough to make a bet with John, then nothing criminal John does at Sherlock’s behest would come around to bite John.

John sits down in the chair and leans his head against his hand, waiting. He can do that much. Eight years, he waited. He can do this much.

Needless to say, he is not happy when the motherfucking cops run a drugs bust, collect the suitcase, and basically piss both John and Sherlock off. John, though, learned a long time ago not to go shooting off his damn mouth whenever someone pissed him off.

He leans back and watches Sherlock argue with, like, everybody before he finally settles into his work. It doesn’t take long after Sherlock has the GPS coordinates of the pink phone for him to disappear. In a near parody of a good omega, John goes after Sherlock, but not before he nicks the gun Sherlock nicked from a cop at the crime scene.

He hasn’t been near one in eight years. It’s been longer, really, because Nathaniel stopped teaching him when John got sick. He remembers how to shoot the way he remembers how to tie his shoes- he hadn’t done that in years either-  instinctually. With a gun down the back of his pants and a laptop in his hands, John gets into a cab and follows Sherlock the way he realized he would be for a long time.

…

Of all the foolhardy things to fucking do, and it’s take poison. John watches, heart twisting peculiarly (he says peculiar, because he thought he had at least a chance of walking away), while Sherlock holds the damn pill up to the light. John slides the gun from the back of his pants and clicks the safety off. Then-

- _“Breathe, John. The moment you stop is the moment your shot goes to hell.” John follows instructions, breathing, just breathing, for a moment._

 _“Now, aim at the target, when you fire, squeeze your trigger finger. Don’t pull- squeeze.” John_ -

-squeezed. The bullet exploded through two windows and nailed him exactly where John had aimed. He doesn’t wait for his flatmate to look up. He’s already gone. John is outside, waiting for Sherlock while the police mill around the body. Abruptly, Sherlock stops pushing the blanket off his shoulders and simply gets up and walks off- ending his conversation with Lestrade.

“Nice shot, by the way.” The compliment comes as they’re walking away. John lets that hang between them for a minute- the acknowledgement that John had killed before and would kill again, and the fact that John had done it out of protection for Sherlock. Then Sherlock giggles, and John can’t help but smile back.

“You can’t giggle at a crime scene,” he says through his own snuffled laughter.

“Can, and am,” Sherlock counters.

“Still the addict, I see.” A voice says from the dark. The two of them look over. Mycroft. Lovely.

“Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s automatic dismissal is enough to tell John what he needs to know- Sherlock doesn’t like him anymore than John does. Also, It’s rather funny seeing his words in the mouth of a genius.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iiiiii'm Ooooooooff Grooooooundaaaaaatioooooon!


	6. Texts and Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out that his situation isn't as bad as he thought, and he gets his first taste of Mycroft-ery

JOHN WATSON 

“You’re worried about your heats.” Sherlock says from where he sits, suspiciously innocent, in his chair. John just looks at him. Of course he is- he has nothing to buy suppressants with, and no one would sell to him anyways. He was all over the news a couple days ago, since he’s an oddity. Everyone’s going to recognize him, and no one will take pity on him or even have the decency to give good customer service.

“Oh, and the genius strikes again.” John says dryly. He’s been turning the same fucking problem over and over in his head for the past week and a half. He really doesn’t want to hear Sherlock’s solution.

“You could register as infertile.” John turns around.

“Register?”

“Yeah. There’s a lot of omegas out there who can’t or shouldn’t have children, and it doesn’t look good on Britain that all of their homeless are there because they can’t have children.” John’s thinking quickly. Is he not infertile? He was the last time he checked, but that was eight years ago, and, even though the doctor said ten, John’s been removed from the problem. He killed the problem. Is he still infertile?

He’s not going to double check.

John picks up the packet of paperwork Sherlock nudges closer to him with the tips of his long fingers and John begins to flip through it, eyes scanning. The first few page is an explanation of what registering as infertile means and the benefits and setbacks of the status. The next page is all about the rudimentary stuff- name, date of birth, address, height, weight, age, gender, second gender, marital status, social security number, a section for John’s education, who provided it, and a section for physical description. 

After that, on the next page, there’s a section for any abortions/ miscarriages John’s had, along with what his now ex doctor said about him. There’s a section for the medication John took. There’s a section for his criminal record and more.

John could fill this out. He could put pen to paper and write down the sterile version of his life. He could put the data here and take it to Barts, which, Sherlock tells him as John’s flipping through the papers, has a Center for Reorientation, Recovery, and Rethinking, or CR3, designed to deal with omegas like John. Barts would process his paperwork, then he would talk with someone about what he is and how much help they can provide for him.

Then, no doubt, his information will get leaked. Someone in the Drake family will realize what he’s doing and put a stop to it. They’ll be there when John’s heat comes in less than a month from now. John looks at the papers. He has to fill these out or find a new mate or pay top dollar to get some suppressants. He can’t do the last to. Sherlock hands him a pen when John’s eyes flick towards the table, looking for one.   
At least, this way, he has a fighting chance.

…

A doctor’s degree. He could get his doctor’s degree. The papers he turned in a few days ago are on the desk between him and a woman by the name of Matilda Leroy, a beta in close companionship with Mike. He half listens, half wonders at what’s being said to him.

“It would be more of a continuation of the program you were doing during your time in prison, rather than having assimilate you into an entirely different program of study. That makes things so much easier on our end, since you were close, anyways. 

And he was close, John knows. He was almost certified. He had counted on having that degree when he got out, so that a hospital might take him on as a nurse or even a janitor, if he has to. It was cut short, and John doesn’t know why. But he could finish it. He could have his degree within the year, if he pushed a little.

“You seem shocked, Mr. Watson.” The beta says, not unkindly.

“I didn’t think it would be possible.” A real smile blooms on the woman’s stoic face, now. She, on seeing John’s flat expression and near-hostile temperament, felt it would be better to not get attached to this one, but the lost look on his face is enough to change her mind. John, for all the time he served in prison, is still an omega.

“It’s always possible, if you go to the right people.” Their eyes meet. They both know there’s a lot more wrong people out there than right.

“Right, well, I would need to contact the prison. Which one did you say it was, again?” 

“Ivory. Ivory Prison.” It’s on the coast between London and Oxford, with the sea at its back and London countryside to the front. It’s walls are not white, contrary to the name, but a dulled, steel grey, and heavily guarded. 

When John went there, it was like stepping into a nightmare. When he left, it was like leaving a cave with a wild dog in it, to weather the storm. He takes a moment to wonder how he managed to find another cave, and if he’ll be kicked out any time soon.

“Thank you, Mr. Watson. I’ll contact you when I’ve found and put together what paths you can take. For now, Here are a few informational pamphlets to let you know how this program works.”

His arms full, John leaves the office in what’s quickly shaping up to be one of the best days of his life. His pocket buzzes. John carefully shifts the plastic portfolio to one arm, dumps the pamphlets inside, closes it, and goes to fish out whatever it is that’s being fucking irritating.

11:05 a.m.

Good morning. -SH

11:06 a.m.

Whose phone is this? -JW

11:06 a.m.

You’re sister came by today while you were in the shower. She wanted to see you, but since she didn’t seem too aware, I told her you were out, so she left this for you. -SH

It looks like Harry still has a drinking problem.

11:06 a.m.

I don’t take charity. -JW

11:07

Oh, I know. But I still need to be able to contact you, so think of this as a rudimentary thing. Besides, it’s not charity, it’s a means to an end. She doesn’t want it. Look at the engraving on the back. The two of them broke up. If they hadn’t, she wouldn’t be getting rid of the phone.

John looks.

Harriet Watson, from Clary, XXX

He hadn’t known about her relationship. 

11: 08 a.m.

Keep using the phone. How did your appointment go? -SH

The total switch in gears has John thrown off balance.

11:09 a.m.

Why do you care? -JW

John makes his way to the train station and stands in line, glancing up every now and then to see if he’s being watched. Omegas are always watched before any action takes place, so it’s the eyes that John looks for. He pulls out his phone again.

11:10 a.m.

Guess. -SH

11:11 a.m.

No. -JW

The intercom signals John’s train loading. He gets on, finds himself a place at the end of one of the metal benches, and pulls out his phone again.

11:13 a.m.

Why? -JW

11:14 a.m.

You’re my flatmate. It’s my business to know. -SH

11:15 a.m.

Fair enough. -JW

11:15 a.m.

How did your appointment go? -SH

11:15 a.m.

Deduce it later. -JW

11:16 a.m.

I already have. -SH

John rolls his eyes and puts his phone down. Presently, his phone buzzes again.

11:23 a.m.

Good morning, Mr. Watson. -X

11:24 a.m.

I’m not Mr. Watson. -JW   


11:24 a.m.

Controlling all the traffic cameras in the world is useless if I can’t get a hold of a simple phone number. -X

11:25 a.m.

Piss yourself, Mycroft. -JW

John is not in the mood for Mycroft Holmes right now. He’s really, really not. In fact, he’s in a good mood, despite being amongst a bunch of alphas and bonded/escorted omegas. He doesn’t want to deal with Mycroft.

11:25 a.m.

I don’t actually have anything non-beneficial to tell you, Mr. Watson. -MH

11:26 a.m.

Stop texting me. -JW

11:26 a.m.

When you get back to 221B Baker Street, my brother is going to ask you to go on a case with him. Don’t do it. -MH

11:28 a.m.

You won’t fare well. -MH

11:30 a.m.

I know you’ve read this. -MH

John continues to ignore Mycroft’s text until the train lets him off. He holds himself straight-back and stiff-necked all the way to his flat. When he walks in, Sherlock is sitting in his chair.

“I take it your appointment went well.”

“Yes.”  Give and take, John.

“What did my brother say?” John just looks at him. From the counter in the kitchen, Sherlock’s phone dings out a text alert.

“Hand that to me?” Give and take. John hands him the phone.

“Up for a case?” - My brother is going to ask you to go on a case. Don’t do it.

“Where are we headed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwahahahahahahaha! I've discovered a love for making them text each other!!!!!


	7. Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft uncovers the beginning of something disturbing.

Mycroft was right about how it wouldn’t go well for John. The almost-doctor ignores it, though. He focuses entirely on the scene before him and tries to forget about why Mycroft was right. He doesn’t forget. He does compartmentalize.

There’s an omega. He’s face up, eyes open, dead as a doornail. There’s a gash on the back of his head, he’s dressed in tan and brown- neutral colors for an omega- his nose has bled at some point, and it’s been broken more than once. He looks exactly like John.

The doctor keeps his face expressly neutral. As the entire yard glances at him. John’s nose has been broken twice- not once-, and he wears black and brown. Brown is a neutral color for an omega, but black is a warning, while red is an invitation. It’s visa versa for alphas, with red being a warning, and black being an invitation.

My brother is going to ask you to go on a case. Don’t do it.

Well, then.

John snaps out of his trance, just then, and glares at the Yarders. Mind your own damn business, he says without ever opening his mouth. Sherlock, for his part, measured John when the omega wasn’t looking, so the glare isn’t directed at him, this time. He thinks it’s funny to see Donovan and Anderson freeze, caught in the act. 

Really, it may have taken Sherlock less than a second to know John wasn’t like other omegas, but even they should have figured it out from the last case. Sherlock turns back to the body. John can sort himself out. He won’t want and he doesn’t need Sherlock’s involvement. Presently, John kneels on the other side of the body.

“Broken neck.”

“Sharp object.”

“Ledge?” John asked as his hands probed the wound on the head and the one on the neck.

“There could be two objects. The one the neck was broken on could be blunt, and the thing that caused the head injury could have been sharp.” John looks at him.

“Is the head wound before or after the neck wound?” Sherlock smiles at him. It’s an excited, curious little smile.

“We’re about to find out.” Then Sherlock is taking samples, and John is stepping back, letting Sherlock go ahead and do what he wants to do. He will anyways.

…

Later, John is looking in the mirror, and he can’t help but remember a dead man who looks like him. He’s staring up, all those years ago, like John remembers-

-There’s a  roar; the crowds somewhat excited as John pulls himself to his feet once more. He crouches again. He’s not going out like this, he tells himself. He’s not going to be someone’s prison bitch. He’s not going to he’s not going tohe’snotgoingtohe’snotgoingto-

The alpha charges again, and John dodges, but comes back just as quickly, using his shorter height to put shoulder to rib cage and relieve the alpha of his breath. This fight’s been dogging his steps all week. He knew it was coming. The alpha turns back towards him and John catches one on the cheek from a heavy closed fist.

Dad used to do this all the time, John thinks, you know how to handle this. The alpha makes another run and, again, John gets underneath him and puts a fist in his stomach, then grips his head with both his hands and rams his forehead as hard as he dares into the alpha’s nose. The crunch of bone and a loud cheering rings around in John’s head and he thinks, My god, that was amazing, even as the both of them are being restrained, even as John’s being thrust into Medical so that someone can check him out.

Even when the metal door slams him into isolation, he can’t stop thinking about how that was so much better than anything he’s ever done. Not the education. Not the prospect of being a doctor. The mere fact that John now has the choice to fight is beautiful and wonderful. He goes and sits opposite the camera, waiting. 

A few days later, the door opens and-

“John.” He turns to face Sherlock, wondering what he could want now.

“I called you.” John blinks. He didn’t hear him.

“Three times.” It’s like their roles have switched.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” It would be a lie, but Sherlock knows that, when John says “nothing”, it’s the abbreviation for “nothing I’m going to tell you.” He lets it drop.

“What did you want?” John says, fully back in the present.

“Tea.”

…

“Anthea.” She strides into the room, a file in her hands. Mycroft didn’t ask, but, most days, he doesn’t have to. She sets it down in front of him and picks up Mycroft’s empty tea cup, sitting above his left hand, out of the way of his paperwork. Mycroft looks down at the file. It’s marked classified.

Carefully, he opens it and his eyebrows raise. Apparently, at some point, someone was writing John Watson letters. They were letters that he did get to read. They kept them from him. They were anonymous, a different return address each time. A handful are from the same author.

“The warden had them.”Anthea says quietly. Mycroft can tell that these are copies. Bloody good job on that one.

“Thank you.” Anthea nods and goes back to her desk. Mycroft picks up the first letter and opens the cover.

John,

It’s occurred to me that you may not be sorry- either that you killed or that you got caught- and, if this is the case, it would do you well to remember that everyone pays their debts. Every omega, that is. When that time comes, please remember that Nathaniel did for you what your father couldn’t and wouldn’t- he fed you, he educated you, he gave you everything you needed. I realize that he was abusive, but every alpha is, in some way, abusive. Better to be hit where you can go and get an ice pack, right?

In any case, I am writing you to let you know that you did not just hurt Nathaniel. He had family. He had friends. He did not need to die, and you took his chance of life from him. For that, fuck you. I hope you wind up a prison bitch, as that is what you deserve, if you really think life was so bad for you with Nathaniel.

Sincerely, Jack

P.S. If you refuse to read any more of my letters, you are nothing but a coward.

John,

I sometimes wonder who came out on top: you or another alpha. Are you bored yet? Do you miss the sweet moments between you and Nathaniel yet? Is your bond shrivelling? Are you? How many times have you been in Medical? Isolation?

Do you like this cage better than the last one?

Sincerely, Jack

P.S. He never loved you. He just wanted an heir and you looked cute, standing on the street, trying not to be seen.

John,

My wife died today. I said good riddance. I’m in a hospital now, they’re monitoring my heart and shit to see when I’ll die. I think it will be soon, if they don’t leave me the fuck alone. I want to kill something. Someone. You.

I think I’m just irritable.

Sincerely, Jack

John,

Cremation is better than a funeral. People don’t expect you to go to the funeral. Just the wake. The wake, I did fine. I wore black. Nathaniel loved seeing you in black- a slim, sharp cut against the backdrop of omega scent. If he could, he’d fuck you right now, wherever you’re at in your miserable prison block, because you’ve probably gotten into a hundred fights by now.

Are you anyone’s bitch?

How are your heats? 

I hate you.

Sincerely, Jack

P.S. How many suppressants do you take? Do they work well?

John,

My last heat hospitalized me. They told me I need another bond. I told them I have one. I didn’t tell them what kind of bond, though. That’s my own business. This upcoming heat I’m going to check into one of those… hotels. 

I’m clean. I’m pretty enough. I’ve got an asshole, I produce slick, and I don’t want children. They’ll take me. I hope whoever fucks me is gentle.

Was Nathaniel gentle or rough? I know you liked it either way.

Sincerely, Jack

John,

I-

“He didn’t listen.”

 

“I know.”

 

“What’s in them?” Mycroft smiled.

 

“Someone interesting.” Mycroft began to scan the next letter. Then he read it outloud. This is not good.

-f I was going to kill you, I’d start with your feet and burn the bottoms. Then I’d make you stand and look at me. I would see the tears in your eyes and laugh in your face because good god, you really thought you’d live, didn’t you?

I’d prove you wrong.

I’d prove them all wrong.

The alpha from the hotel was mean. He made me bleed. I didn’t notice. I spent three days in a recovery room after my heat. If I had been you, I would have killed him.

I don’t think you killed Nathaniel. You came damn close, but you didn’t kill Nathaniel.

You’d be dead. You had him. You want him to jump off a cliff. He should be dead but you couldn’t do it. Fuck you.

Sincerely, Jack

P.S. I wouldn’t have minded, if it had been you.

“Bring the car around. I need to speak to Sherlock.” Mycroft swiftly reads the rest of the letters. Things are about to get interesting for Sherlock and John.

**  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saturday is the official Update Day!!!


	8. Aptitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes an aptitude test, Sherlock begins to plan.

When Mycroft enters 221B, John is not here. Only Sherlock, who is playing his violin and staring at his gun, wondering how long John would be mad if he shot the wall, is present. Mycroft planned it this way.

“Sherlock.”

“What happened?” Mycroft took a moment to appreciate Sherlock’s capacity for deduction. He sets down the portfolio.

“This.” Instantly, the violin is on the couch where Sherlock’s legs were a moment ago and the detective is opening and flipping through the letters, reading at a lighting fast speed.

“Well, then.” Mycroft can smell the ideas, some of which, by the ashy tang in Sherlock’s scent, are homicidal.

Sherlock does that thing that means he’s going to be thinking for a long time, and Mycroft takes the letters when he leaves. As much as he’s found John to be a good match for his brother, there are some things he can’t leave alone. This is one of them. For a moment, he wonders how mad John will be, then puts it out of his mind. That one isn’t going to let himself be taken care of. So he’ll just have to not know.

…

John finishes the last short answer in his test and hands it in. The test has three parts- a written and two hands on portion- all of which are designed to test his aptitude and judge how close he is to a degree.

As John steps outside the room, following a woman who’s supposed to take him for the second part of his test. She lets John into a metal room that looks mostly like a dystopian interrogation room. The only furniture is a large, reclined chair that’s clearly high tech. John is told to sit in it.

“Are you ready, Mr. Watson?” John nods. He’s feeling nervous, now. He doesn’t like rooms like this. The woman clears her throat.

“Okay, this portion of the test is designed to test your potential reactions in various situations. All situations are crucial for your patient, but triggering for you. In a moment I’m going to wrap a band around your wrist to measure your vitals, which will help us to determine your ability to handle high-stress situations. In addition to that, you will receive a helmet, which will create the simulation. If, at any point, you feel you can’t go on, please say so, and we will either wait or halt the test entirely. Good luck, Mr. Watson.”

John puts on the headgear the woman pulls out of a box and unfolds. John pulls up the sleeve of his plaid shirt and watches the shiny band. The inside is padded, everything’s a little too cold for comfort, but it’s quickly warming. John lowers the faceplate on the helmet. His world blacks out.

“Ready?” John nods.

“Alright, we begin the test in five… four… three… two… one…”

The black In his vision fades and John finds himself standing in a hospital hallway. He’s wearing a white lab coat over mint green scrubs. His shoes are the scuffed thrift store pair he walked in with. He tries to walk and find that it does, in fact let him control his body. The voice starts a moment later.

“Dr. Watson, you’re needed in emergency room A, please.” John looks down. Oh. There’s a map. Lets see… John looks to the right. He’s standing in a residential hallway, looking at room 234. According to his  map the 100 rooms start on the second floor, so he must be standing on the third floor. The numbers go down if he walks straight ahead.

John carefully follows the map until the rooms leave the 230s and get to the 200s. At the end of the hallway is an elevator. The door to room 208 opens and a big alpha steps out. He looks harried. He reaches for John, and the omega skips backwards.

He read the packet. He knows what he has. He could knock the alpha out with his bare hands, but he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him… John darts around the patient and slams the door, locking it. He turns and hits the big red call button. Then he goes and lets the alpha into the room. He lunges and-

- _John ducks but it’s too late. He’s thrown across the coffee table, Nathaniel’s drink going with him. John hits his head, and looses track of time. He comes back to himself kneeling on the floor, Nathaniel just seconds away from hitting him again._

_By John’s right hand is the shot glass, now emptied. Nathaniel does this alot. Drink, John thinks. He goes out and finds beautiful people, fucks them elsewhere, then gets mad at John because John can’t handle Nathaniel._

_He decides, staring at that little piece of glass mockery, that this ends today. John stands up, hand shaking because he’s off his meds - Nathaniel forgot to refill them, again- and he’s scared as shit. He doesn’t think it’s going to work, but it has to, because John’s just a little crazy, and Nathaniel doesn’t even treat sane right, anymore._

_John lunges at him and gets caught round the neck of his button down- pale blue, like Nathaniel wanted- and lifted up. Shit. He failed. John can feel the piece of glass mockery, clenched tight in his hand he_ -

Puts a hand into the diaphragm- the problem is the alpha’s legs. He drops, and John gets him onto the bed, strapping him down. He can smell the nurse coming down the hallway. John steps out and heads to the elevator.

HOURS LATER

John walks into 221B, dead tired. Sherlock, on the couch is deep in his mind palace. John goes up stairs. The shower sounds, shuts off, and a door slams. A moment later, a smell like vanilla and lemon drifts down the stairs, letting Sherlock know that John is asleep.

The test must have been hard, because it’s seven forty five in the evening.

Sherlock contemplates calling Mycroft to see if he’s got anything on this mysterious “Jack”. Sherlock needs to get those letters back, too.

For now, though, Sherlock just breathes in the scent that John makes when his guard is down, which only happens when he’s deeply asleep.


	9. Shot Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a fan (of sorts).

John’s watching Sherlock, knowing full well that Sherlock is ignoring John on purpose.

“I’m not actually an idiot, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I know.” Sherlock moves his index finger to scroll down whatever he’s looking at on his laptop.

“Stop treating me like one.”

“I’m not.”

“Then stop ignoring me and tell me what the fuck is going on with you.” Sherlock smiles. John is somewhat easy to rile, when Sherlock isn’t trying. It’s when he is that John won’t be moved.

“Nothing. I’m just thinking.” John raises his chin and stalks off. Sherlock knows that move. That’s the “I’m pissed with you and now you have to fix it or it’s going to feel like midwinter in here until you do” move. A moment later, John’s door closes, and his footsteps sound on the stairs.The door to the flat slams shut.

Well, then. Sherlock waits an extra hour and then takes a good long breath to make sure John really is gone. He smelled like sulfur when he left, so it will take a while for him to return.

9:02 a.m.

How did your morning go? -MH

9:03 a.m.

Have you got anything? -SH

9:03 a.m.

Nothing you don’t have. -MH

9:03 a.m.

I want them. -SH

9:04 a.m.

Very well. -MH

There are things that Mycroft will bait Sherlock with- things he’ll make him dance for- but this is not one of those things. Whether the two of them know it or not, Sherlock’s gotten attached, and he’ll stay on that ship until it rots away under his feet.

Sherlock will have the letters within the hour.

…

John returns late in the evening, looking highly satisfied. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to get Sherlock off the hook.

“Which of your prison friends took you to a gun range?”

“Oh, no one.” Damn. If John says “no one” or “nothing” it’s just the first part of “nothing/ no one I’m going to tell you about”.

“You know I’ll figure it out.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He sounds oddly elegant as he smirks at Sherlock and goes upstairs. He smells nice- like hard work and satisfaction. John smells like this after a case. It’s one of Sherlock’s favorite smells- mown hay and lemon, with the underlying bitter tang he always wears, except for when he’s deeply asleep.

Sherlock lets him go and analyzes the scent of the man he was with- definitely alpha, a bit like cologne, except better. Sherlock thinks he may be able to put up with John’s old friend.

Sherlock listens to the shower turn on, smells John’s scent getting fainter as he washes off the body odor and the deodorant, the sweat and the dirt, the alpha and the gunpowder, the metal, bloody smell of fired bullets.

He thinks of all the inmates John interacted with- really interacted with, because he fought every fucking one- and sets about answering the current important question: would John hang with someone he had the least trouble with or the most?

An hour later, John’s wet, long hair heralds his face as he descends the stairs.

“Laundry?” John only has two sets of clothes, all of them dark, down to the underwear and socks, so they all fit in a small load, but John doesn’t like hearing the washer going at all and/or odd hours, so he tends to throw Sherlock’s clothes in with his. Sherlock gets up to go find the ones that can wash. John might do the laundry- half of it, that is- but he’ll not be sorting clothing.

“Thank you.” Sherlock says when he hands John the short basket. The omega nods and turns back to the washer. Sherlock doesn’t usually say thank you- fuck it, he almost never does- but John won’t do him favors like laundry or tea unless he knows that Sherlock knows that John is in no way a maid or an omega who can be just ordered around. The thank yous are Sherlock’s acknowledgement of this fact.

The detective goes to lay on the couch. His phone dings.

8:39 p.m.

Good evening, brother mine. -MH

8:39 p.m.

Mycroft. -SH

8:40 p.m.

Up for a case? -MH

8:40 p.m.

If this is about the killer from this morning… -SH

8:41 p.m.

It is, but it’s a bit more complicated then I thought. -MH

8:42 p.m.

Complicated how? -SH

8:42 p.m.

Shot glass. -MH

8:43 p.m.

I’ll be there if I can duck John. -SH

 

8: 43 p.m.

The unstoppable Sherlock Holmes has a problem avoiding a convict? -MH

8:43 p.m.

Yes. It’s not like you did well with him either. -SH

8:43 p.m.

Sure enough, brother. -MH

8:44 p.m.

If I can’t get out without him, I’m bringing him with me. -SH

8:44 p.m.

That is not wise, Sherlock. -MH

8:45 p.m.

I think he can smell secrets. -SH

 

Sherlock turns the ringer off when he gets the address. He closes his eyes and waits until he hears the sounds fade. As quietly as he can, he gathers his coat and slips out the door.

Out on the street, he hails a cab. A calloused hand catches the door and John slips into the cab after.

“You’re not very good at this,” John muses as Sherlock gives the address.

“Oh, I know. I’m not quite trying.” Sherlock may not want John to see the body, but he really doesn’t want him to be ignorant of it. Combine that with John’s frosted manners, well… he may as well just come along.

…

John killed Nathaniel in the upstairs living room of Nathaniel’s posh townhouse. There was a glass coffee table, which had been shattered, a black, sharp-looking couch, and a large screen TV.

John left Nathaniel’s body on the side opposite to the windows, and called the police from there. Then, he went to their shared bedroom, stood quietly amongst the bad memories and various lies, and wondered when he’d start to feel the bond break. He had felt it break, of course, but his chest didn’t hurt, he didn’t want to cry.

When the police came to take John away from his spot, they saw he had left bloody foot prints all through the house.

John immediately knows that this is a recreation of that night. The body’s in another town house. There is no carpet, but the room is in the same position and similar in size. The TV, which had been a fifty two inch and thin enough to surf on, is embodied by one of those old fifty-pound cubic ones, sitting on the floor, below where the flat screen was. The couch is a beat up, nasal-looking, stained cast away, where it was once black and sleek; all right angles. The coffee table once was glass but is now broken wood.

The footprints, though. Those are spot on. Same size, same weight, if Sherlock’s right. They lead in the same direction and stop in the same spot.

The eeriest of all, though, is the body. Same position, same expression, same injury. Except the body is much smaller, the hair is blond, the clothes are something Nathaniel had once told John to wear: sky blue button down and khaki slacks- appropriate wear for an omega. John ignores all that- let Sherlock make the deductions- and goes to kneel down. He’ll bet his arse that this kid- same age, too- didn’t die from the shot glass. No, he died from something else.

John is going to find out what.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update. One may not come next week.


	10. Fights and Friends.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to work off steam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who read the last update I accidentally posted the chapter that comes after this one, so I'm sorry, and this is the one that was meant to go up. Bye for now.

“Hold off, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Give me a really good reason to.” Sherlock and Mycroft are face to face, noses inches from each other, the both of them ready to fight. Two alphas, really, really shouldn’t butt heads over one omega. Even if that omega is infertile. Even if that omega is John watson, who’s watching quietly from the side. He’s beginning to get impatient, really. You’d think that the two smartest men in the world would have a little fucking control over themselves and yet they’ve switched to a different language so that John can’t tell what they’re saying.

He turns and strides off, as quiet as he can.  His footsteps don’t make a sound. His heart does not speed up. Neither alpha notices. When he’s far enough away from the impromptu argument and their apartment, John pulls out his phone.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?” The deep voice asks from the other end of the phone.

“You up for a little sparring?”

“Since when am I not?”

“Oh, good, because I feel like hitting something.”

 

…

 

When John first moved into 221B, he had two pairs of clothing, one pair of shoes, and one pair of pants. When he got registered, he received a temporary monthly fund while his situation was sorted out. 

Now he is sorted out, and he’ll keep receiving that funding until he gets his doctor’s degree and a job. So he went to he store, bought another pack of pants, a pair of tennis shoes, a third outfit, and a jacket with patches in the elbows (this from the thrift store), a pack of socks, dri fit, and basketball shorts. 

He’s got the shorts and dri fit with him, and the tennis shoes are on his feet, when he makes his way back to the gym he got his membership at. He changes into his clothing and walks over to the bag, stretching as he goes, to warm up and wait for Marcus.

He gets absorbed in throwing punches, though he never stops paying attention, so Marcus cannot sneak up on him like he was once able to.

“You look pissed.”

“I am.”

“Alpha trouble?”

“More like double trouble.” Marcus and John walk over to the mats, and John steps out of his socks and shoes. Marcus tosses him the tape.

“Stop going bare fisted. You’ll fuck your knuckles up doing that.”

“I know.” John says, but wraps up anyways.

They take up positions opposite of eachother, and alphas gather round to watch. This ought to be interesting.

John throws the first punch, then skips backwards. He does this over and over, ducking and dodging, quick hits with power behind them, in and out, in and out. he remembers the first non-lethal conversation he had with Marcus.

...

 

“Your biggest problem is biology. It’s not just defying it. You also have to work with it. The angrier an alpha is, the stronger he is, and the more brute force behind each movement. So work around it.”

 

…

 

Marcus skips forwards, packing so much more power. John does too, at the same time, so that his fist hits Marcus’s stomach. Marcus rolls with the punch and returns tit for tat.

 

…

 

“It’s always going to hurt you more. It’s always going to cost you more. You will always have a disadvantage. So never think you just “have this”.

 

…

 

John shakes his head and focuses harder, lunges faster. Things are getting heated. Around them, the gym is silent with the sound of awe. All is not peaceful, though.

“Break it up, break it up!” A voice shouts from the back. John and Marcus immediately turn and face the newcomer. They know who he is.

“What the fuck is an omega doing in my gym?” The manager shouts.

“It’s possible that I’m working out, sir.” John’s slight, thin smile is infuriating.

“Well, get out,” the man spat. John spread his arms wide, palms up.

“No can do, mate. I’d love to, but you just gave me an order.”

“Omegas are not allowed to spar. Not even the reject gallery.” The man’s nose is turned up, and, for the first time in weeks, John is reminded why he really hates alphas. Not even Mycroft, or Mycroft and Sherlock to the eighth power, has anything on the classic King of You attitude.

“How about a wager? Are omegas allowed to do that? Or are you afraid of losing?” John asks as sweetly as possible. The alphas around him won’t step in, John knows, because alphas who come to a gym to box with other alphas and keep up their bodies but have no real excitement in their lives are spoiling for a fight, or, at the very least, a really good show.

The gym manager crosses his arms.

“What’s the wager?”

“If I can beat you in a fight- no weapons, no holds barred, no moves illegal, and no padding- you get the fuck out of here and let me go back to practicing. If I can’t, I’ll leave and I won’t box in here again.” The manager cocks his head at the omega. He has to take the bet, now, because he has to keep up his pride and respect. What he doesn’t have to do, however, is avoid those nice little weak spots on either side of John’s windpipe.

“Ten minutes.” The alpha goes to get his own shorts and dri fit on. That little fucker’s going to be aiming for his dick, no doubt about it. He’ll have to watch that. He likes his knot. He’d rather not lose it today. John turns and looks at Marcus, who tosses John a water bottle. The omega breaks the plastic seal, twists the cap off, and drinks the whole thing before tossing it into the recycle bin next to the double doors.

           Ten minutes later, John and the manager are in the same position John and Marcus were in earlier. Marcus has his hands raised above his head, ready to start the match. He looks at the look in John’s eyes and the one in the gym manager and realizes that this may turn deadly.

           “You are not to kill each other,” Marcus says so that everyone can hear it.

           “Three… two… one…” Marcus drops his hands and steps backwards. Then he pulls out his phone and starts to videotape it. This is going to be good.

           The manager lunges forwards and doesn’t stop. John braces himself- both hands up to protect his face and, more importantly, his face. The man’s big, though, and the shoulder he puts in John’s diaphragm is a bitch to deal with. John rolls to give himself space to get up, but the managers on top of him, digging his fingers into the useless glands on either side of John’s windpipe.

           The omega feels the instinctual need to relax- shit, that’s stronger than he remembers- and bites down on the hand. The alpha flinches, freeing one of John’s trapped hands, which promptly comes up and smacks him in the jaw. That’s all it takes for John to roll the alpha off and get to his feet. Now, he’s angry. No one wants to fight John when he’s angry.

           The manager lunges again, but John is having none of it. He goes to, and, while the manager gets a second grip on John’s glands, the omega gets a grip on his neck and slams his head forwards, breaking the nose of his opponent.

           It’s short work after that to pin the man and press his face into the mat.

           “Yield!” One of the manager’s trapped hands raises up, then taps once, twice, and thrice. John gets off of him, but skips back in time to avoid the limb meant to hurt him badly.

           “Spoiled sport,” John muses. His throat fucking hurts right now.

           “Well, that was fun,” Marcus chimes in, ever easygoing the way he never was when the two of them were in prison. “Let’s go, John, you’ve had enough.”

           “I decide that.” But John casts a baleful glare at the alphas still gathered around the mat before he walks to his tennis shoes and socks, then to his gym bag. It’s a clear challenge, really. It’s always a challenge with John.

 

           …

 

           “Does it still hurt?” Marcus is asking about John’s glands. They’re useless to John, but-

           “Yup.” The two sit in silence for the cab ride back to 221B. When the cabbie stops, John turns to Marcus.

           “Thank you.”

           “For what?”

           “Recording it. Can you send it to my email?” It’s an email John made when he first got his library card a couple weeks ago.

           “Yeah. See you later, mate.”

“Count on it.” John gets out to go inside, and runs into Ms. Hudson on the stairs.

           “Oh, John! You look like someone beat the crap out of you!” John smiles.

           “I know, Ms. Hudson. I’m just going to go upstairs and take a shower. I’ll be fine.” He ducks Ms. Hudson’s beta hands and makes it up the stairs. As he opens the door to the flat, he realizes a few things. A: Mycroft is still here (shit.). B: Sherlock is also still here (double shit). C: They aren’t done with their pissing contest (triple shit).

           John makes for the stairs, carefully keeping his hear at the same rate that it was when he walked in, but it’s too late.

“Did you win?” Sherlock already knows the answer, but he wants to bother John right now, since John left in the middle of his argument, then returned looking like he’s been fighting (he has. Sherlock can deduce a great deal from a man trying to be quiet.)

           “Yes.” John doesn’t stop moving. He really doesn’t want to talk to Sherlock right now because Sherlock is in the middle of an argument with Mycroft and he’s not happy with John for walking off to get into a fight with the manager of his gym.

           “Mr. Watson.” John doesn’t stop for that voice, either.

           “Mycroft.” Then John’s gone- disappeared to grab clothes and get into the shower. Before he gets rid of the sweat and dirt, he carefully takes pictures and catalogues each of his injuries. Ten to one says this thing with the manager isn’t over.

           His throat really hurts right now, and the hot water isn’t doing anything but making the tightening worse. John gets out quickly and goes to his room, locking the door behind him. He really needs to sleep right now.

          He’s out before his body fully relaxes.


	11. Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John injures himself, and Sherlock must help fix it. Also, Mike has his second scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have already read this chapter, I'm very sorry. The last time I updated, I just grabbed the latest chapter and completely forgot about the fact that I had two unposted chapters, rather than one.

John managed to actually damage his glands, which really fucking sucks, so he sleeps for almost a full week and has to call in sick at Bart’s. His fever spikes on the third day, and, at that point, he’s bad enough that Sherlock comes in to check on him.

Sherlock has to pick the lock to get in, but when he does, he immediately calls a doctor. John may be this close to a degree, but he’s far too stubborn to do it himself. In less than an hour, the heavy tread of Mike Stamford’s footsteps can be heard on the stairs, and Sherlock opens the door just as he raises a beefy fist to knock.

“Mike.”

“Sherlock.” For a moment, the situation reminds Mike of the one he was in some eight years ago, except it was the alpha (bonded and widowed) hired to protect John from everyone but Nathaniel who opened the door.

“Do come in. John’s got a high fever. He got in a fight a few days ago. I think he injured his glands.” Mike snaps out of his reverie and follows Sherlock through the messy flat. Underneath the anxiety of Sherlock, John, and one other alpha, Mike can smell the undertone of peace- not the kind you get with a bond, either. That’s good.

Mike makes it up the stairs quickly, and he realizes that he’s going to smack John when he wakes up. The room practically reeks of a spoiled smell that comes with injured glands. He should have called before he passed out.

John’s wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and not much else. The blankets have been tossed away and John lays facing the door, completely unconscious. Mike goes and kneels next to the bed, slides on a pair of gloves, and carefully feels the glands. Swollen. Big time. Oh, he’s going to hate this.

Mike opens up his bag and removes a plastic case with padding on the inside. He opens it up and takes out two out of four needles. He sets those down on the bed and pulls out the rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball. Carefully, he swabs each gland, being careful not to press too hard.

“Hold him down.” Sherlock moves around the other side and places a hand on the back of his neck, ready to squeeze if John wakes up.

As quickly as possible, Mike pokes the needle into the gland closest to the bed. John immediately wakes, body rigid, teeth bared in a feral sort of way. At the same time, Sherlock squeezes the hand around his neck as hard as he can and grips a handful of John’s long hair with the other.

John goes completely limp- all the things that Sherlock does have made his bony hands impressively strong and steady- and lays there breathing shallowly and quickly, eyes glazed over and fear filling the room. A flash of pity rips through Mike like a tidal wave before he shuts himself down. He will not feel sorry about this.

He swabs the other gland a second time- this one has the better angle- and pokes it with the needle as well, injecting the clear, slightly too thick fluid. When he’s done, John’s neck looks normal, if red.

“Alright. We’re done here.” Mike recaps the needles and places them back into their clear padded box before laying a hand against John’s forehead.

“He’s already cooler. Just let him sleep, for now.” Mike quickly stows the rest of his supplies before gathering the trash and watching Sherlock carefully climb off the bed- ready for him to lash out. He does, and Sherlock narrowly manages to not get hit. In the face. With a fist.

He stops only to flick the blankets back up over his flatmate before beating it out the door. He has a bastard to track down.

…

Twenty four hours later, John wakes up, feeling like he was attacked, but not remembering anything. As if through a fog, he convinces his body to sit up and place both (not one, git) feet on the floor and stand. His mouth feels like cotton.

He goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, wondering how long he’s been asleep. Then he goes back to his bedroom and pulls on a shirt. His stomach growls. Mm. Food. He needs some. Or a lot of some. Did Sherlock bother to shop? Food.

John goes down the stairs only slightly more awake than he was when before he brushed his teeth and realized that, (a) everything smells like a corpse, and (b) if this is the “groceries”, John is either going to be hungry for quite a bit longer than he expected, or he’s going to be eating something weird. He’s not eating anything that’s been sitting under a body part. Especially if it’s a head. If John is going to refuse anything, it’s the chance of poisoning via eating something that’s been sitting under a head. Food. Right.

He goes to the fridge and- hey, it looks like he could make a Frankenstein with the various parts in here. He’s only missing a few pieces- closes it again. It is, indeed, the source of the body odor (hehe. Literally). OK, so, no food in the fridge (barring cannibalism) so there might be something in the cabinet.

He goes and pulls the door open and sees that their collection of dried and non-refrigerated packaged foods have evidently been what Sherlock’s been eating off of, because there is nothing here but- oh. There’s a box of granola bars in the very back. John has to get a chair to get to it, but he manages to obtain food. Yay. Food.

He opens the cardboard box, tears into the plastic wrap, and bites down. Damn, he feels ravenous. John sticks the bar into his mouth and removes one of the few items still in the cabinet: tea. He sets the box on the counter and goes for the mugs. There’s only one clean one left, and it’s kind of dusty.

He runs it under the tap and takes another bite of his granola bar. He turns on the stove, washes out the dirty kettle, and puts it on to boil. During the five minutes it took him to do this, he’s consumed two more granola bars. He goes for the fourth such bar and gets to the last bite before the door to the flat opens and, a moment later, Sherlock comes into view.

Their eyes meet, and something flashes across Sherlock’s somewhat surprised face.

“Good morning.” John says around a mouth full of food. His stomach is still painfully empty. He’s thirsty, too. He goes looking for a glass and then returns to the sink to wash one.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know how long you’ve been out?” John turns around to look at him.

“No. However, since this kitchen was stocked before, I’m not doing the shopping now.” He goes for another granola bar. Sherlock comes towards him and picks up one himself.

“Five days.”

“Huh.” They sit there in silence, eating granola and Sherlock wondering how much he can get away with not buying at the store. Not much, he thinks, because John seems to always know exactly what’s here and what’s not.

The kettle begins to boil, and John pushes off the table to go and pour the water and set the tea. Then, he washes out a second mug for Sherlock, pours the water a second time, places a second tea bag, and goes and resumes his place by Sherlock.

“How about a deal?” sherlock glances at him.

“What deal?”

“I’ll do the dishes if you don’t skimp on the shopping.” He hates doing dishes. He really fucking does. Dammit.

“Very well. Anything you want in particular?”

“Mmm, jam. Make sure there is jam- not the sugar free kind. And we also need more tea.” There’s three bags of tea left in that box. Neither John or Sherlock are good people when they are out of tea.

“Right. Along with everything else.”

“Yep.” sherlock pulls open the fridge door and wonders how many body parts he’s going to find missing when he gets back. John is not a squeamish man. He will throw everything out if he gets the chance.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“If you’ll do the living room, I’ll take care of the body parts.”

“Fair enough.” John puts the sugar into his tea. Sherlock waits for his to be ready before he comes to stand beside him.

“Indeed.”

 


	12. Crafty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack begins moves to the next stage of his game and Sherlock is crafty.

Sherlock takes a look at there door and knows that something is wrong; it’s not crooked in the way that John crooks it (to the right) and it’s not straight, either (Mycroft). Mrs. Hudson is out for the week to visit her sister (in the hospital; she won’t be leaving).

Sherlock sticks his hands into his coat pockets after he shuts the door. He mounts the stairs quietly, tasting a bitter and vaguely familiar scent. Ah. He was wondering if the little fucker was ever going to show up.

He walks into his flat and looks towards the kitchen. Someone made tea, and then left it out- John is almost irritatingly meticulous about putting his things away, since he bothers Sherlock to do the same thing. It occurs to him that they’re becoming domestically attached to each other. No wonder Ms. Hudson and all the Yarders are betting on when they are going to become a couple.

Sherlock turned to the living room. John’s pillow’s been used- every time John sits down, he sets whatever is in his hands on the table, moves the pillow from almost bent in half to semi-fluffy once more, and sits down. The pillow is lying flat on the chair.

Sherlock turns his nose in the direction of the stairs. He follows the bitter scent up the flight, careful to miss all the creaky spots. He feels mildly sick, because this scent is similar to John’s, and John is nothing like this bastard.

Sherlock lays his hand on the knob but doesn’t push it open. John always closes his door, but this one is open a crack. In one fluid motion, he pushes open the door and removes the gun he has in his coat pocket, aiming down the sleek object to the figure on the bed.

He’s built a bit like John, but he’s thinner in the shoulders where John is naturally broad. He lays there, reclined on the bed, large, dark eyes shining with humor out of an almost delicate face. His body is clad in a westwood, his shoes are wingtips. Well, what do you know? The devil likes to dress for the occasion.

“Hullo, Sherlock.”

“Jack, I take it?”

“Yes… just like you take everything else.” His lilting, irish accent is woven into his words, and he speaks so softly that Sherlock thinks he must have been asleep just moments ago.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock already knows why, of course, but he wants to hear him say it.

“I came to see Johnny, of course.”

“He’s not here…” Sherlock ventures. John is getting his license today, and he told Sherlock he had a handful of things to do that would keep him out until late in the evening. On a whim, he asked Sherlock if, should no cases present itself, he’d like to get chinese, since John would have a few free hours in the evening.

“Oh, I know, but you are, and that’s good enough,” Jack says softly. He gracefully swings himself into a sitting position and then gets off the bed, giving his suit a smart tug by the lapels.

“Hmm.” Sherlock hums noncommittally. He’s trying to decide whether he should act like an alpha now and a genius later, or a genius now and an alpha later. Jack moves past Sherlock and out of John’s bedroom. Well, now or never.”

“Leave John alone.” Sherlock says, his voice so flat you could die from it.

“Or what?” Jack says, his voice pitching upward, deeply pleased that he’s got a reaction from the flatmate of his favorite person to fuck with. Sherlock, at the top of the stairs, descends until he reaches Jack, at the bottom.

“Or I’ll burn the heart out of you,” Because he does, in fact, have a heart; a possessive, obsessive, insane, broken, mutilated heart, but a heart all the same.

“Then I suppose I’ll catch you later.” Jack’s voice trails behind him as he slips out the door. Ooooooh, Sherlock’s going to get him. First though, he’ll have to make sure John doesn’t find out. Sherlock knows John. At the first sign of protectiveness, he’ll bolt, and he’s much too interesting for that. Very few keep Sherlock on his toes. Only one, in fact.

As the door shuts behind Jack, the detective notices that a new letter sits on the mantelpiece. He walks to it and picks it up, knowing that the game is much too young for Jack to tip his hand just yet by blowing him up, or something.

John,

I went to your flat today. You know, had a look around, and the like. It’s rather nice, for an unbonded coward, but hey, who am I to hate? I got better, anyways.

I met that alpha of yours, Sherlock. He’s a protective son of a bitch, for someone who doesn’t want to bond to you. Figured that you’d want to think about that the next time you bring him tea. This will be my last letter for a while.

 

-Sincerely, Jack

P.S. .It’s Moriarty, by the way.

Sherlock stairs at the letter before immediately carrying it up to his room and depositing it on his bed. With quick, jerky movements he pulls out the lockbox from his closet, opens it, stashes the latest letter with the rest and his gun, and puts it all back.

Then, Sherlock goes to John’s room and strips the seat from his bed. and flings open the window. He puts the sheets in the washer and goes to the bathroom- good, Jack wasn’t in here- before he races to the living room and collects the pillow after wiping the spot on the mantle. He takes the pillow and tosses it into the washer, opens all the downstairs window, and cleans the pot and carefully wipes off the teabox, the handle to the cabinet, and basically everything Jack toughed.

When he is done, there is no trace of Jack Moriarty. After barely a moment’s hesitation, he pulls out his cellphone and calls Mycroft. He has had enough of this waiting.

Less than an hour later, he sits down to dinner with John. The omega will get his licence when he goes back to Bart’s tomorrow. This evening, he has to meet with Molly and the few Barts staffers he knows, as they’ve decided to celebrate the fact that , in less than twenty four hours, he’ll be walking out of Bart’s a fully fledged omega doctor, beholden to nothing and no one; total freedom.

“What are you planning to do now?” That’s a fairly easy question, but with John, he could be easily planning on pursuing a career in boxing, if that’s what he’s set his mind to.

“Look for a job.”

“Bart’s won’t hire you?”

“They will, but I don’t want to be just a Bart’s omega.” Ah. Sherlock gets it. Due to the way omegas are treated, they are almost always live circuit lives; the same old stops, again and again, never getting anywhere. The sad thing is that it’s okay with most of them, not because they simply aren’t adventurous, but because they’ve been taught they are just Bart’s omegas, or, more likely, just a Drake omega, or just a Watson. Sherlock supposes that, of all the social norms John is afraid to embrace, the idea of belonging solely to one place or one family would weigh the most heavily on him. Sherlock hides a smile and picks up his chopsticks.

“Hmm. That would be counter productive, wouldn’t it?” They eat the meal in comfortable silence when Sherlock abruptly gets an idea.

“Did you like the case with the pink lady?” John is silent but for a moment.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to practice?”

“...” John squeezes his lips together as he thinks it over for a moment. Does he really want to owe Sherlock any more than he already does? On the other hand, sherlock is forever getting himself banged up and shot at, concussed and sprained. It would be… and even trade, he thinks.

“Sounds like fun.” sherlock smiles, satisfied that he has found a way to keep a closer eye on John without crossing any of his boundaries. Well, any boundaries that John can see. He’ll have to worry about the rest later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I haven't gotten as many comments lately, so I was wondering if maybe I've written this wrong?


	13. Museums, Invitations, and More Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boys deal with the smugglers and get invitations.

On monday, John and Sherlock go to a bank where the owner is a fucking prick on a raging ego trip (that would be the two trips he had around the world this month, John). Apparently, his job’s on the line, and he doesn’t want an omega “in here, mucking things up”. Sherlock just smirks and asks him why he has “an omega secretary, then?”

John leans against a wall and watches in abject fascination as Sherlock walks by things, pops his head up in random places, and basically performs an impromptu experiment revolving around the old guy in the picture’s painted face. Really, it’s like attack of the wild consulting detective. It is funny though.

John has the incentive to keep the smile off his face.

Then Sherlock is done with the bank and John is rushing along after him. He doesn’t bother to try and follow Sherlock’s thought process (this IS Sherlock, after all) as the consulting detective takes them past bodies and police, graffiti clues and museums, and, in at one point, John gets saddled with a ticket.

It’s evening a day or two after before Sherlock is calm enough to be talked to. John sets the ticket down in front of him and waits for Sherlock to deduce what John wants. Sherlock looks up at him.

“Is there a court date with this?”

“Yep. One that I’m going to in order to let them know that I will not be paying a ticket that I didn’t earn.” Sherlock looks at John for a moment. It is sooooo amusing when John’s just on the verge of flustered.

“The case isn’t over, you know.” It’s an invitation. John sighs and sits in his chair.

“Where are we going?”

…

A circus. They’re going to a circus. This circus starts out entertaining and then ends with John being strapped down in front of an incredibly not amusing big ass arrow on a big ass crossbow and John’s concocting plans of revenge (mainly involving fucking up experiments) when Sherlock appears out of the blue and lo and behold! The gang leader DOESN’T fire her gun, Sherlock doesn’t get riddled with bullet holes and John doesn’t get shot through the torso with this big ass arrow.

At the end of it, John realizes that, despite the unfortunately long displays of alpha greatness, the death of the museum worker, and his time spent tied down, he did have fun. He resolves not to carry out any plans of vengeance, as he is, after all the one who said “sure, I’ll follow you”. That kind of puts the majority of the things that happened to John under the list of Things John Asked For. Sherlock didn’t let him get killed or even overly hurt. Now that John’s paying attention, he thinks Sherlock might have, at one point, been half strangled.

The morning after, John makes eggs for himself. Presently, he hears the click and then soft thump of a closing door. Sherlock wanders in just as John’s getting out a second tea cup, pouring more water from the kettle, placing a second bag of tea in the cup, setting down a saucer on top, and then proceeds to crack another egg in the pan he didn’t turn off.

Other than that, they ignore each other. The unwritten rule of the morning is this: shut the fuck up, please.

When breakfast has been served and both have eaten, Sherlock gathers the dishes and John goes to check the mail; a life of fair trade, really. The water runs in the kitchen and John begins to sort.

Bill. Bill. He missed his court date (whatever. Sherlock can deal with it.). Bill. Bill. Invitation. Invitation. (For both of them? Huh.). Case offer. Job offer. )Ooh. He thought he’d start applying to jobs today or maybe tomorrow.)

He takes the three stacks (John’s, Sherlock’s, theirs) and places them with a finger between each, keeping them separated. He gets to the living room and sets the piles next to each other, then sets about picking up errant mugs of various substances (one of which is an experiment, so he leaves it alone and moves right along) and taking them to the kitchen. He sets them on  the counter for Sherlock to wash and goes back to clean up the rest of the living room.

He stacks papers that looked like they were stacked before, picks up cushions, throws away that bottle of spray paint Sherlock painted the smiley face with, collects trash and plates, reshelves books, and basically cleans up the chaos the living room adopts during all of Sherlock’s cases when John is too busy to clean.

It’s another unwritten rule: don’t leave the cleaning until a case. It’s fucking irritating to come home to a double mess.

When he’s picked up the big objects, he collects a broom and does the sweeping. Then the mopping. Sherlock’s finished in the kitchen (he’s done the counters and table, the floor and the cabinets, made a shopping list, etc.) and John can hear him in the hallway. John collects the necessary supplies and goes to the bathroom, while Sherlock moves to the laundry room. By midafternoon, John’s back with the groceries, Sherlock’s gotten his experiments in order, and the flat looks like livable chaos, rather than unlivable chaos.

With a cup of afternoon tea in each hand, John makes his way to the living room and sits down in his chair after handing Sherlock his cup. He pulls out the earbuds he’s had in the whole day (a gift from Marcus) and pulls his stack of mail closer to him. The sound of ripping paper and sipping tea goes on for a minute or so and then:

“John? Did you get this invitation?” Sherlock holds up a rather ornate card with his full name scrawled across the front in ornate lettering of champagne and gold. John glances at it, then reaches for the second letter he opened. He holds it up for Sherlock’s inspection.

“Yes.”

“Are you going?”

“No.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“It’s for England’s most influential-”

“People.” Mycroft says from the doorway. His suit is, as always, immaculate. As is his attitude and everything else about him.

“Don’t finish my sentences, Mycroft.” Mycroft gives Sherlock what is supposed to be a smile. As per usual, he looks like he should be sitting on a throne. That throne, when he deigns a visit important, is generally John’s chair. The omega regards Mycroft cooly with the look he gives every motherfucker with the balls to be an upstart sonofabitch. Not that Mycroft is an upstart, but John’s just a bit territorial about his chair, and it makes him uncomfortable to pick up anyone’s scent but his own on the fabric.

“In any case, the invitation is not one you can turn down.” Mycroft carries on, as though John did not just subtly challenge him. Sherlock openly smirks at him, as if to say “bet you wish you didn’t kidnap him now, huh?” It’s incredibly satisfying to watch Mycroft navigate an unsolvable problem that’s about 90% his own making.

“Why not?” Mycroft opened his mouth to explain.

…

“As much as he definitely asked to be hit, it does appear to be important.” He and Marcus stroll through a bench. It’s cold, and they have hot tea and gloves and jackets. The wind whips across their backs and around uncovered skin.

“Come on, Marcus. It’s a prat convention.”

“Personalities aside, everyone their has power enough to either help or hurt you.”

“I don’t want help.”

“No, but the reformers do.” John just looks at him.

“Oh, come on. Surely you saw it?” John mutely shakes his head. Marcus smiles.

“Well then. Do follow. He quickens his pace, and they reach his car in five minutes. John gets into the passenger side, and Marcus the driver. His friend pulls out a mobile and begins to type. Presently, he thrusts the screen into John’s field of vision, and the doctor focuses on the homepage of group.

The top of the screen says A Truer Version: John Watson

Under that is a statement about how omegas do not seek to switch places on the totem pole with alphas, but to be on the same level blah blah blah. John skips down and sees, much to his displeasure, himself. He’s walking across the campus at Barts. His head is twisted in conversation as he talks to one of the professors- an alpha- that had been charged with teaching him. John’s hands are spread away from his body, as though he’s making a point.

There are several like this: him talking or eating or simply being with various people of different genders. There’s a few of him by himself as well. Really, when did they get all of this? He doesn’t even remember half of these instances, despite the fact that each picture has a date and time and caption detailing what’s going on.

“What the hell?” He mutters to himself.

“You’re a regular celebrity, John.”

“So I am.”

“You know, at some point, the Drakes will rally, and you’ll have to deal with that, too.”

“And you’re saying that this will help.”

“Hey, you forfeit a great deal of power if you don’t go to this. Even if that isn’t the case, it’ll be harder for foul play if you’re out in the open.” John squeezes his lips together.

“Think of it like this: this is your life. If the Drakes get their way, it’ll be ruined. You can’t just go hide behind another alpha. You’re too proud. You can’t face them down on your own, either. From what you’ve told me, you were on a cocktail of medication at the time. That’ll be enough to void a great deal of what you say. You need friends, but you don’t need leashes. So you need something to throw at them. You need an army without submitting to the soldiers. Well, Marcus made an incredibly convincing case.

“I’m not going back to give Mycroft my consent and with nothing else.” That’s suicide- a white flag when he needs a black one. Marcus smiles.

“That’s where the fun part comes in, love. Tell him you make everyone either love you, or love to hate you. Let him know that, no matter what he decides, you’re going to be absolutely scandalous in the best way possible.” While they’d been talking, John had continued to scroll through the web page and Marcus had merged with traffic. When they pull up to Baker Street, John looks up at his flat.

“Scandalous, huh?” Marcus smiles.

“Oooh, you sound like you’re coming around.” John nods and gets out of the car. He lifts a hand in goodbye. He’ll have to do something for Marcus. The man seems to know what to do every single time. Then again, this is the sonofabitch who he fought with it for the first year he was in prison.

When he steps into Baker Street, Miss Hudson reaches him at the foot of the stairs.

“John, they aren’t too happy right now. It might not be a good idea to go up there.” John smiles at her and takes her hand briefly before moving to the stairs.

“Miss Hudson, I’m full of bad ideas.”

 


	14. Danse Requiem: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes dancing.

Dancing. John picked it up during his disastrous sojourn as Nathaniel’s husband. He used to hate it- he’d never learned before, so it was incredibly awkward, having some hoity-toity instructor stalk around him and declare that he will do. It’s his weapon of choice for tonight.

He’s exquisitely turned out in a close cut suit of navy blue, while Mycroft has gone tan and Sherlock’s wearing black. They’re complimentary colors, but the three won’t be near each other. They didn’t even take the same car. John turns to look out  the window of Mycroft’s limo, thumb rubbing speculatively over his fresh-shaven chin. In the dark of the car, his eyes are deep, impenetrable pools, so different from their usual lively blue. Mycroft had to stop himself from giving John pointers before he left (they’re all taking separate cars), but decided against it. He was, after all, married into the Drake family, and they are all about propriety. And manipulation, control… Besides, John has some killer sarcasm.

As the mansion comes into sight, John instinctually reaches up and fiddles with his piercings. He has one in each ear, the holes and a pair of earrings he’ll never again wear a mark of their engagement (their official engagement, that is). Now, instead of the delicate, clear diamonds in a square silver molding, a pair of small black bulbs sit attractively in the middle of each lobe. Well, it would be attractive, but it’s black.

John stops focusing on the view and wonders what this night will cost him. Mycroft is the one who bought him this suit and all the accessories, so he’s already a mannequin. He’ll be going to flirt with the Drake family; display the life he lives and the personality he wields so that it shines so much brighter than his wedding ring ever did. He’ll be dancing. Sherlock gave him a few quick turns through each dance his hated teacher taught him all those years ago to shake of the rust. It wasn’t entirely clinical, as much as Sherlock strove to make it so. To top it all off, both the Holmes brothers will be in the background, watching, waiting, plotting. That’s what the Holmes boys do. Then they strike. People’s lives fall apart or cease entirely.

Riding on this evening, though, is the support and fuel omega rights groups need to flourish, to change the laws so that the omegas who aren’t owned consist of more than infertiles. If John pulls this night off (and every time in public thereafter), he’ll be changing things by example. He sighs. The example of what life could be for those who are free is a living mannequin.

“Coming on the mansion, sirs.” The driver says before he rolls up the divider once more. The limo turns off asphalt and onto a stately gravel drive. Ten yards back from the road is a tall wrought iron gate made of thick bars and painted white in the night. The driver pulls to a stop as a man in a suit (the first attendant this evening), approaches the vehicle. As the driver speaks and flashes John’s invitation at the man, John’s fingers begin to move faster; a subconscious tick.

John closes his eyes against the electric glow of the little office the attendant sits in as the iron gates swing inward and the limousine moves on and under the great canopy of trees, creating a pitch black tunnel to an all-too-real wonderland. As the mansion comes into view like Atlas at the end of the world, John drops his hand and leans away from the window. He crosses his legs and sinks quietly back into his seat with a relaxed and aloof posture. His head is turned straight forwards. He is ready.

An attendant opens his door and John swings his legs out and stands in one fluid motion. His movements are brisk and fluid, actions precise, face marble. He adopts the air of a man who is controlled by nobody as he strides forwards and up the marble steps. He makes his way past the oaken double doors, presents his invitation (he got it back from the driver) and shucks his coat.

His coat is a marvel as well. There’s a large hood that blooms from the collar and could protect him from things like bright camera flashes. After that, it conforms to his body and ends at the knee; all black leather that’s been buffed, worked, and shined to perfection.

He strides into the ballroom, his no nonsense attitude and darks suit giving the impression of a much taller alpha. An announcer introduces him to the room and, with a smirk tugging the corner of one mouth, he sweeps his eyes around, taking in everybody, aware that he’s being watched and plotted against and simply not caring. In fact, it’s like he’s daring them to keep plotting like the useless pieces of shit his gaze says they are. He ascends into the sub terra ballroom, his feet doing a quick tip tap as he rapidly descends the stairs, body almost turned sideways to make room for his wingtips. He comes off the bottom as relaxed as ever.

Capable hands nip a champagne flute off a tray and the tiniest sip passes his lips. Hmm. It’s good champagne. He makes his way over to the side of the room where he’s immediately waylaid by a reporter.

“Doctor Watson? Hi, I’m Veronica Carter with Speaking of Which on BBC and we’re doing an episode on omega rights, particularly their advocates,” The alpha’s pretty; red hair, green eyes, an attractive smattering of freckles across the concave bridge of a perky nose and capped off by a small chin. She’s wearing an emerald green open backed dress that falls like water over attractive curves and pools around her feet. She offers a manicured hand. John takes it, giving that one-sided smile again.

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Tell me, what’s it like to be back in the limelight?” The smile flashes. John sweeps his arm out over those in attendance.

“It depends on your definition of limelight.” Miss Carter gives a thin quit-fucking-with-me smile before she continues.

“You’re at one of the most exclusive parties in the world- it’s just a step away from the Card Dance- so even if there were a thousand people here, you would still be in the limelight.” She’s probing, trying to remember the manners one would use with royalty while at the same time pushing her subject to answer. John makes or breaks this episode’s intrigue. He’s that special spice.

“Oh, crowded, I suppose,” he says vaguely, and takes another sip of his champagne flute, holding the glass gracefully between his fingers. The woman presses on, writing quickly on a tiny notebook.

“Does this bring back memories for you? The last time you were here, you had Nathaniel’s ring on and were just starting to show signs of your pregnancy.” God, she’s blunt. John likes it. The question, though…

“Oh, no. The circumstances are so different. It’s rather hard to draw up the difference, now.” John gives that smile again.

“What’s it like, being free?” John looks thoughtful for a moment before he responds.

“You should know. If you’ll excuse me.” He moves off to get food from the buffet table, selecting something small and neat to eat and does so quickly he almost appears birdlike. He steps farther into the room, greeting various people from London’s list of most influential and known people before finding a nice wall to inhabit. The dancing will begin soon, and he has made sure to consume enough of the bite sized things that the champagne won’t affect him. It’s been awhile, so he only takes half a glass.

“Doctor Watson?” Someone says. He turns around. A dark skinned, curly haired alpha extends his large hand and bows.

“May I have this dance?” He says in utter seriousness. John gives him the half smile and takes the hand.

“Of course.” The band begins to play louder now that someone is interested in dancing, and starts up the perfect music for a waltz. John takes his place as the omega: one hand on shoulder, the other held palm down. It’s been a long time since anyone held his hand or laid another on his waist. John doesn’t act like it though, because his first time dancing in nearly eight years had been with Sherlock. Not this man. The novelty’s gone, now.

In ¾ time, John is led around the dance floor, looking like a bottle of smooth electricity. John may have hated learning to dance, but he is fantastic about it. They start, as all waltzes do, with the closed change. The distance between them is small but carefully measured as John lets himself be led into the natural turn, the reverse turn, and the whisk before his partner speaks.

“You’re good at this,” he remarks, a bit surprised that an inmate’s a better dancer than he is. John lets them get to the intermediate bronze before before he answers.

“Oh, I know. Thank you.” As he’s led into the back whisk, his partner speaks again.

“Who did you practice with?” They slide smoothly into the basic weave. His partner presses effortlessly.

“Who’s touched you?” Double reverse spin. Reverse pivot.

“Who owns you now?” It’s only then that John sees the earpiece. He lifts his chin a bit and watches him, giving him that devilish little smirk.

“Why doesn’t the man listening in come and find out?” as they slip smoothly into the silver, through it, and out into the gold, the hover corte and fallaway whisk falling away as the dance ends. John steps back and bows.

“You’re not that subtle, are you?” He says conversationally to his partner.

“The matriarch wants to see you,” He says, all too quiet.

“I suppose she can have a look, but I don’t do private audiences for every alpha who asks.” Then he turns on his heel and strides off, ever mischievous.

He has people to bother, impressions to make, motherfuckers to piss off. He hasn’t time for private audiences (he does. It’s just he’s fucking with their heads, but they don’t need to be told that. They’ll figure it out on their own and keep playing the game as planned.).

He makes his rounds, fielding uncomfortable questions, avoiding the sexy reporter, and basically letting it be known that John Watson is back, and no one can keep up. Sometime during his dance, Mycroft made his entrance, followed by Sherlock a few moments later.

He does, of course, stop for a perfunctory talk with Mycroft, who acts as though he is like everyone else. Sherlock gets a slightly longer one. As his flatmate, he should know all the details everyone else is clamouring for.

He finds himself being asked to one more dance (that is, one he’ll even think of accepting). Leslie Drake, alpha and the matriarch of the Drake family, is an old woman with a steel spine, silver hair, an iron fist, and a diamond mind (not as smart as Sherlock, but the Drake family has supposedly almost dissolved into turmoil over this and that several times, and it’s all been dealt with quietly; not one peep to the press, near or actual murder, or even a little tension at public events. John and Nathaniel are the only full blown and acknowledged problem in the entirety of her reign- all fifty years of it.

When the song that begins to play is another in ¾ time, John graciously accepts her offer and dances with careful deliberation around the dance floor.

“I wonder, John, how you managed to secure your release.”

“Do you really?” He said quietly.

“Hmm. You’ve done rather well, haven’t you?”

“What do you want?” They take another turn.

“To work with you, my dear. I underestimated you before, thought you were weak. And, yet, here you are, just eight short years after you killed my son,” John struggles to maintain his genial facade when all he wants to do is glare and hit her upside her uppity little head,”and you’re one of the most influential people in England. Clearly, I would be wrong not to change my opinion of you.” Her face and voice give nothing away as the two of them reach the end of their song. John takes a step back and bows.

“It’s Watson, by the way. Doctor Watson,” he bows and walks away.

“Think about it, will you?” She calls out behind him, her voice smooth voice doing nothing for John’s mood except making it worse.

He decides that enough is enough. He’s done what he came for- wrote off the matriarch, smiled at people in his best fuck you attitude. Now, he just has to ride out the rest of the dance with the same devil-may-care attitude. Then, he can go home, make tea, take a shower, phone Marcus and see how funny he thinks the evening is.

As it turns out, there are sitting rooms and billiards rooms leading off from the main floor. John finds an empty one and puts all the balls in the triangular rack. He swaps the balls around so that the black eight ball is in the middle and the yellow one ball is at the top and the rest arranged in a stripe-solid-stripe-solid fashion.

He sticks his fingers into the balls at the bottom of the wrack, squeezing them tight against each other and carefully lifts the rack. He picks up one of the exquisitely made pool cue and collects the cue ball. With careful positioning, he sends the cue ball flying smack into the yellow one ball, sending projectiles rolling everywhere and picketing three.

One by one, he meticulously sinks each ball, leaving the eight for last and not scratching at all. He’s reracked and broke a second time before he senses someone’s presence in the room. For a moment, his heart stutters, his stomach drops out of his ass, his mind halts, and he fails to move immediately to line of for another shot as his whole body freezes and his eye fail to continue sizing the table up. It only lasts a moment. He moves and pots the seven ball, then the one ball.

“Hullo, John.” With the exquisitely broad shoulders and fit body he has, he is devastating in a close cut black armani, his button down the same, while the waistcoat and tie are both a bloody red (darker than Miss Carter’s lipstick). His jewelry is silver, his hair jet black (yes, it’s natural) and drawn back curling delicately around his ears. As he was all those years ago, he is enchanting. The eyepatch that covers his right eye only serves to enhance the effect in the soft lighting.

**"Nathaniel."**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleeeeease let me know what you think!


	15. Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John puts on a show and gets a surprise.

“John.”

“A bit ex machina of you. Makes for a bad plot, that,” John says, utterly ignoring the bizarreness of the situation while at the same time acknowledging it.

“How are you?” He says after a moment of heavy silence in which John potts another two balls.

“Fine.” He can’t bring himself to look Nathaniel in the eyes, but he will. Just as soon as he shoves his stomach back into place, because really, he feels a bit light headed.

“Did my grandmother speak with you?”

“Yes.”

“You should accept.”

“Yeah? Why?” he finds the strength to reinsert his stomach from where it fell out of his ass.

“You’re legally my husband and chemically my bondmate.”

“Actually, the Drakes ensured that when we divorced after your “death” it was done properly and my name’s been changed back to Watson, so I don’t belong to you. Even if I did, you can’t make me do a damn thing because I myself made sure you were declared dead, officially making me a widow. You have no leverage.”

“It won’t stand up in court.”

“And are you going to court? Is all that suspicion from the first time now meaningless to you? And how about that flawless track record of Lady Drake? The family name and reputation will be dragged through the mud because the fact of the matter is you should have waited, and you didn’t. That’s a big no-no in polite society. In fact, I’m guessing that this conversation is positively scandalous, which is bad for a man already suspected of abusing a fourteen year old omega.” John says all this with that expression of neutrality and finishes up with the one-sided smirk again before bending down and pocketing the eight ball.

He lays his cue down on the table and places his doctor’s hands against it, cocking his head to the side and gazing with the intense focus he used to attack his school books with. Nathaniel seems to become aware of something because his eyebrows scrunch together the way it did when he realized that something got forgotten and it needed to be retrieved.

“No matter what you decide, I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry I didn’t just leave well enough alone, and I’m sorry for not caring. I know it was hard for you, in a prison occupied almost exclusively by alphas. It must have left a lot of scars.” He says the last part almost to himself.

John does not want to hear sorry, though. He wants to hear things that don’t attack long healed wounds. He wants to just deal with the oppressive hierarchy of the Drakes and think Nathaniel himself dead. But he’s not getting what he wants. He reverts to the next best thing.

He stalks around to where Nathaniel’s at.

“Yeah,” says he as the omega takes a half step and winds up right in Nathaniel’s face, “it hurt. I do have a lot of scars...” He lets the rest of the sentence- and there is a rest- trail off into a whispery exhale. It’s sensual and sexy and totally hot and arousing, that breath.

“I bet you’d kill to know what they feel like.” Then the moment is over, because John is stepping past him to the door, hips swaying the way they have since he hit his growth spurt. That was after Nathaniel, so it looks brand new to his freshly living ex.

“Oh,” he says quietly when he reaches the doorway, “I’m going to have to decline on the offer.” Then he’s gone, out into the brightly lit ballroom.

…

John is the first to get home. He paces the living room, both of the hallways, the stairs. He can’t stop walking because Nathaniel is alive. God, he’s alive. Why does he have to be so stubborn? His chest hurts as the undeniable truth that Nathaniel is alive melts a chemical barrier in John’s head, exposing him to Nathaniel’s extreme displeasure.

He presses the fingers of one hand (a typical omega gesture, and one he’s unable to stop just now) over his mouth and clamps down on the sounds trying to rise from his chest- weak sounds, begging and pleading sounds, sounds he doesn’t make anymore. He feels his eyes grow hot and he suddenly realizes that he cannot do this. He cannot go out and show the world that he’s back, bitches! and then proceed to go home and cry about what his little performance has cost him. No, he’s not weak. He’s not fourteen anymore. He’s John Watson, and he cries for no one.

He does the things he’s learned and does his breathing- in for four, out for eight, repeat twice. In for four, out for sixteen, repeat twice. He doubles up until his head starts to feel dizzy and he doesn’t feel like crying anymore. Then he goes and puts on tea.

The kettle’s just started to whistle when Sherlock steps through the door of the flat and hangs his coat and scarf. Then he joins John in the kitchen as the doctor pours water over a tea bag and, as Sherlock hastily sets his own cup and bag down, repeats the motion. Five minutes later, the two of them are installed in their chairs, it’s two in the morning, and John is exhausted.

“John…” The doctor looks at him.

“Hmm?”

“You were good, tonight. I didn’t quite think you had it in you to be that good.  John looks down at the cup in his hands.

“Thank you.”

“What do you want to do now?”

“Wait until tomorrow to see what everyone’s saying.” Sherlock accepts the fact that he’s not going to get an answer today.

John looks over at his invitation. He had tossed it down from where he had picked it up earlier in the evening. Huh. He didn’t open the job letter. He carefully slits the paper and stares, eyes wide, at the contents.

Doctor Watson,

It has come to my attention that you have received the remainder of your training and are now a certified doctor. First and foremost, congratulations. It is a rare thing, indeed, and very admirable.

In light of your accomplishments, I would like to offer you a position as one of our doctors within Ivory Prison. If you accept, you may contact me at [paul.stein@ipms.org](mailto:paul.stein@ipms.org). If you do not, best of luck, doctor.

Sincerely, Paul Stein.

John sets the letter down after a moment and goes and gets Sherlock’s laptop. He doesn’t usually use it (though he has permission), but this… well, he should look into Mr. Stein, his old warden, and make sure this isn’t a game.

He smiles to himself at the little reminder that life goes on- that the whole of his focus isn’t the Drakes, and the whole of his will isn’t Nathaniel’s. John settles down into his chair, now newly grounded, to do his research. After all, if he does this right, he could have himself a job not too long from now.

 


	16. Miss Carter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock watch the aftermath of the dance.

“John?”

“Yeah?” John’s flat voice gives away the fact that he just woke up. Marcus glances at his watch. It’s eleven in the morning.

“Late night?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” John says dryly.

“You’re all over the news.”

“I know.”

“You going to watch it?” Somewhere in the background, automatic doors open on Marcus’ end, and the shrill voice of the tea kettle can be heard on John’s.

“Yeah. I want an idea of what to expect.”

“Heh, you would.”

“Last night wasn’t fun.”

“That’s not what this commentary is saying about you.” The rattling sound of items hitting a metal cart can be heard, now.

“What can I say? I don’t like people seeing me sweat.”

“Yeah, cause I don’t know that.”

“Shut it.” John picks the remote up.

“What channel?”

“Ahh… 43.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Have fun.” The click of the call going dead echoes for a minute before Marcus puts the phone away.

The screen fades in as the camera pans over a studio audience and focuses on the woman from last night. She’s sitting in a clean cut armchair wearing a skirt suit.

“Hi and welcome back to Speaking of Which! I’m Veronica Carter and today’s topic is the most well known omega in London- John Hamish Watson.” On screen, Veronica’s lovely smile is lined in a gentler dusky pink than the red she wore last night.

“For those of you who don’t know, Omega John Watson was previously married to Alpha Nathaniel Drake, which ended in what was thought to be murder. After eight years of prison time, Mr. Watson was released on good behavior and Mr. Drake has spent the last eight years “travelling”, as the family’s matriarch, Lady Leslie Drake, Nathaniel’s aunt, tells us. They met for the first time last night at the semi-annual Suit Dance.”

On the massive monitor behind her, there’s three pictures- one of Nathaniel and one of John separately at last night’s dance. The third one is of the last time they were together (that was photographed). God, John looks horrible in this shot. He’s fourteen and wearing a suit in deep blue and white. Large sunglasses hide the circles under his eyes, but not the thinness in his face. Nathaniel’s towering protectively above him in black and matching blue.

John closes his eyes and opens them a moment, successfully not remembering.

“Last night, Mr. Watson supposedly received and declined an offer from Lady Drake, and again from Nathaniel. It’s presumed to be an offer of remarriage or something to the effect- a reunion, if you will. The question now is: what should happen? Since he couldn’t be quoted, we’ve taken the question to everyone else,” The first person on the monitor is some blond with an ugly building behind her.

“What do you think should happen?”

“Omega. Married.” Sherlock says suddenly behind him.

“I think that bonds and marriage is a great thing, and if it can be saved, then it should.”

“So you don’t think Mr. Watson should be in the position he’s in?”

“No. He’s Nathaniel’s bondmate.”

“Liar. She’s happy for you.” Sherlock says again.

“Thank you.” The second one’s a male alpha.

“He’s average.”

“John should be behind bars still- he tried to murder his alpha.”

“And all the talk about abuse?”

“Should have been presented at the trial. If it wasn’t there, it wasn’t significant.”

“And the early pregnancy?”

“Not every pregnancy is planned.”

“Prick.”

“What if that was you?”

“I wouldn’t be dumb enough to try and murder an alpha.”

“Thank you.” A few more cuts of different people, and Miss Carter’s back.

“Seems like the majority of alphas and omegas believe that Mr. Watson should, indeed, still be Mr. Drake. That begs the question though: where is the omega rights’ steam coming from? As you can see behind me, there’s thousands of people populating these websites, but somehow no one’s come to light, aside from politicians, who, and I quote: “feel that Mr. Watson, as a person, has the right to do as he wishes. He did his time, and is legally divorced and widowed. Nothing more should be asked of him.”

“That’s all for today, everyone, and thank you for tuning in. Keep track for more installments as the situation develops. This is Veronica Carter on Speaking of Which, and we’ll catch you next time.” The studio audience claps offscreen as the camera pans over them once more before the show fades to black and the credits begin to roll.

“Well, that was irritating.” Sherlock concludes from his armchair. John looks down at his cup- empty.

“What did you get off of Miss Carter?”

“She loves the attention and doesn’t really care about you,” he yawns out before standing and picking up his violin, “she also has an alcohol problem that won’t fully manifest for another three years, minimum.

“Do you have any cases today?”

“No, but you have a job offer. Did you email him yet?” John shakes his head.

“I’m about to, though.”

“You think it’s going to be exciting,” Sherlock leans forwards, “In fact, you know it will be, given enough time.” John just keeps looking, interested in seeing his entire job mapped out before him.

“You’re going to be a prison doctor.” John smiles. Correct, as always. He reaches over and pulls his laptop onto his lap, opens the lid, and types in the background.

“I think so.”

“Don’t bother doubting- they need you, especially if you’re headed back to Ivory… you are,” Sherlock finishes lazily.

“Right, as always.” Sherlock goes to the kitchen, hiding the satisfied smile on his lips.

 


	17. Cramps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes for his interview and gets a nasty little surprise.

The last time he was here, he was wearing an oatmeal colored jumpsuit, and the warden was outlining the prison rules, specifically their policies on omegas. Now, he’s Doctor Watson, and the warden is outlining the general duties and patients he’ll be asked to take and working out the fine details of it all.

“I can’t guarantee I’ll be on call,” John says. He goes to cases with Sherlock, now. he can’t say that he’ll be there because Sherlock goes by no one’s schedule.

“That’s quite all right. As long as we get warning as soon as it’s available. You’ll be on emergency cases, but most of these alphas are simply too much for our live-ins to handle. They can be taken care of, it’s just better if you’re there.” John doesn’t need the answers to half the questions he should ask, like what causes an alpha to need an omega. He already knows it.

“I must say, Doctor Watson. You’ve certainly gone far better than anyone thought you would. I suppose I should have seen it coming,” Mr. Stein says, “you never did let anyone tell you how to be.” John smiles wanly.

“Thank you.”

“I suppose now would be the time to take you on a tour of the medical wing of the prison.” John nods and gets up. He follows Mr. Stein out.

…

When John is sitting in the back of the cab, he can feel an odd feeling in his stomach, but dismisses it. It feels like a cramp (middle of stomach, below belly button) but he’s been taking his meds steadily every morning since he filled out the paperwork for college. If he were to have a heat, it would have been about a month ago.

He lets his head lean back against the headrest and just keeps breathing through it. They aren’t that bad. He’s had pre-heat cramps that have felt worse than a goddamn appendix busting. He’s not going to roll stomach up over a this weak-ass version.

The cab pulls up outside 221B after some time. John pays and disembarks. The cramp has gotten worse and covers a wider area now. Still, he walks like he’s not hurt. He gets into the apartment and up the stairs before he lets himself even think about the fact that this is, indeed, feeling like a pre-heat cramp of the worst kind.

He gets to the bathroom and takes the strongest pain medication he can find. He can barely focus enough to read the direction. He considers climbing the stairs but just the thought seems to send a warning tinge of his abdomen. Stairs are a no-go, then.

He turns and just barely gets himself to the couch before easing down onto it. It smells like Sherlock but at this point in time, he’s not concerned about who else lives here and what that person might think. Besides, it’s past time for John to trust Sherlock. He cannot stop the irrational tinge of fear at the detective stumbling onto John like this, pre-heat cramps in full bloom.

He might be feeling like he’s on the virge of heat, but this is not what that is. This is not-

“John!?” Sherlock calls, voice just slightly tinged in panic as he rushes into the living room, his head swivelling until he sees John on the couch. He rushes over and lays a hand on John’s shoulder. Carefully he lays a hand against John’s forehead and leans closer.

“Are you having a heat? Do I need to call someone?”

“No. It’s not a fucking heat!” The cramps don’t stop getting worse. It’ll take a while for the meds to kick in.

“That’s what it smells like!”

“I know! That’s not what it is though…” John curls in on himself, struggling to keep his breathing even. He doesn’t want Sherlock to know how much he needs help right now.

“I just need to ride it out. I’ll be fine.”

“Bullshit.” Then Sherlock is gone. Distantly, John can hear shouting- two voices. He can hear footsteps and more shouting. It sounds like Sherlock’s on the phone and John just wants the noise to stop because everything is louder and even though he can hear it he can’t discern its meaning.

Surreally, John can feel himself being moved, something being slid off his shoulders. He can feel himself being positioned next to someone warm- someone safe, his brain tells him in its disconnected way. He feels himself surrounded by something soft on all remaining sides. He can no longer register what he sees, though his eyes may just be closed.

The pain in his abdomen blocks out everything but whoever it is next to him. Eventually, it stops worsening, and John slips away into a restless sleep.

…

Some hours later, he realizes that he’s curled up on the couch under a thick comforter. A heating pad passes warmth directly to his stomach- underneath both his shirts. He’s been relieved of his jacket. He’s laying on Sherlock, half cradled against his chest. The detective seems asleep.

“Do you feel better, now?”

“Hmm.” John answers. Apparently someone brought tea, because Sherlock hands him a cup that’s only cooled slightly. He grips it in his weathered hand and takes a sip.

“What was that?”

“Sorry for cussing at you.” it’s not something John normally does.

“Nice try, but not even Mycroft can avoid a question when I ask it.” John settles more comfortably into Sherlock.

“He was alive when the ambulance came. They… they loaded him into the the back of one and drove away. I… was being led to a car. I felt numb. It was like… whatever rage I’d been feeling had eaten away at everything else.

“The sent people to ask me questions. I don’t remember answering, though. At some point I was taken somewhere and processed. Later, they told me that they’d gotten the word that, after fourteen hours of surgery, Nathaniel had died.

“I’ve been… holding onto that all these years. It was a sense of safety, really… my greatest enemy wasn’t going to touch me anymore. I… thought that my lack of reaction to our bond being broken was because there was no longer anything to hold it steady- hadn’t been for a while.

“Finding out that he is, indeed, alive broke down something that was keeping me from feeling the affects of being separated from him,” John finishes quietly as he takes another sip of tea. He isn’t completely out of pain, and he’s now insanely tired, but it feels nice to just lean against Sherlock.

“John…”

“Yeah?”

“Next time, call.” John stiffens. Sherlock continues.

“I know that that’s not how you do things, but putting yourself in a position where you can’t deal with danger isn’t going to help anyone, least of all you. I know you’re not scared of what I’ll do anymore. You’re scared of going belly up for the first alpha that comes along. So know this: I will never do anything to you that you wouldn’t allow if you were in your right mind, okay?” John stays still for a moment, then nods.

“Okay.”

Sherlock does not share the fact that he is now more than a little worried over what will happen when Nathaniel actually dies. He’ll keep it to himself, for now. John does not need extra worries.

Besides, he got a job today.

 


	18. Handcuffs and Phonecalls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a call from Harry. Sherlock deals with Sally.

John wakes up several hours later on the couch, wrapped in a comforter. He’s still tired- dog tired. He could sleep for another full day. Unfortunately, he’s hungry, too. Starved, in fact. He hauls himself to his feet (carefully) and gets himself to the kitchen.

He puts water on to boil before going to the fridge and (Yes!) there are bananas on the top shelf. It’s the only one reserved exclusively for edible things (Sherlock has lost several experiments to learning that, yes, John means it). John peals one and shoves a third of it into his mouth. His cheeks expand like a chipmunk’s as he rummages around in the pantry (only the bottom shelf for experiments) and finds a box of macaroni and cheese.

He pulls out a pot, fills it with water, and sets it on the stove. He goes and sits at the table while he’s waiting for the kettle. Eventually, it does scream. He pours the water over a tea bag and cup and covers that with a small plate.

Mission partially accomplished, he takes himself upstairs for a moment to grab a change of clothing. Then he heads to the bathroom to do his hair, brush his teeth, run a razor over his lower face, and then vigorously scrub the skin to shake the last vestiges of sleep away. He may be going to bed in a few hours, but he’s not going to feel grungy for any longer.

By the time he gets back to the kitchen little bubbles have formed all along the bottom of the pot. Some of them have begun to detach and ascend. John opens the box of macaroni and pours the elbow noodles in.

As he finishes cooking, then draining the noodles in the sink, and finally adding the powder in, John becomes aware of the fact that Sherlock is no where in the flat. As someone who is decidedly bad at feeding himself, Sherlock is almost always in the kitchen right at this time. Nothing short of being absent or- barring that- in his mind palace has disrupted this behavior.

John wonders when he became the type to cook for an alpha again. He did it all the time, when he was little. He tried to do so for Nathaniel, who took his somewhat skilled understanding of food in hand and ate everything he cooked. Then the alpha had told him that, as an aristocrat, he did not need to cook anymore.

That had been a relief. It’s one thing to feed your hungover family members- lord knows it incurred favor later. Cooking for Nathaniel, however, had been like walking through a minefield every single time. The absence of worry, though, did not mask the fact that, as an omega, it is in John’s genes to take care of alphas and cooking was the only way he knew how, barring his heat.

John dishes out the macaroni onto his plate and the rest into a bowl, which he covers with a lid and places in the fridge for later (he’s kidding himself. It’s for Sherlock). He used to just cover things in plastic wrap. Nowadays, though, lids are a must, because Sherlock himself is not paying attention and often sets jars down on top of items. Plastic will cave, but lids protect both the experiment (which gets thrown out if left on the top shelf) and the food (which keeps the both of them alive).

He has finished just half of the macaroni (he salted it) when his mobile rings somewhere in upstairs. The faint old-time telephone sound floats down to him. He runs for it. No one calls him. Even Marcus. He reaches the phone just in time and presses the talk button.

“Hello?”

 _“John? Is that you?”_ Speaking of hungover sisters…

“Hullo, Harry. Are you alright?”

_“Jesus, Johnny! I thought you were dead or mobbed or hospitalized! Where the fuck have you been?”_

“Here and there.” John hedges, uncertain.

_“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny. You’ve been all over the internet and the only thing you have to tell me is that you’ve been here and there.”_

“Sorry.”

_“No, no. I get it. You don’t have any reason to tell me more.”_

“... I have missed you.”

“I fuckin’ doubt it, Johnny.”

“I know I should have called...”

_“No shit. Listen. I didn’t just call to say fuck, fucking, and fuckin’. I read somewhere that omegas who have been through a traumatic or violent experience are at greater risk of depression when contacted by anyone from before that time but were not present during it. At least, that’s the way my doc explained it. So… I was wonderin’ if maybe I’m bad for you? I mean, worse than I already am…”_

“No, Harry. You’re not the cause of anything.”

_“Yeah, well, that’s what  you always said. No, Harry, it wasn’t your fault. No, Harry, I’m just fine. You smacked me upside the head and kicked me out of our room but I’m good. No offense, but don’t get mad if I don’t trust you on this.” There’s a bitter tinge to her voice that tells John a lot more than the sarcasm or her impression of John does._

“How about this: let’s make plans and meet up. Then you can judge for yourself.”

_“... all right.”_

“I have missed you.”

_“Yeah. The house was emptier after you left. I’d get there and it’d be like: where’s Johnny? I don’t think I ever got over the fact that you were someone else’s. I’d see you in the news and think: that’s my Johnny. But you weren’t, cause you were married, and I was on my first girlfriend.”_

“Harry…”

_“Right. Sorry. Here I am calling to see if I’m hurtin’ you again and then get all sappy about how I missed you. Text me when you get the chance, yeah? My number should still be in the phone.”_

“Will do. Goodbye.” John hangs up and wonders how he’s going to sit through any length of time with his sister. She’s always been unnaturally good at telling when he was okay and when he wasn’t.

Right now, his body’s telling him that he is incapable of going through a breakup that’s already over. Right now, he has a narcissist for a flatmate that is somehow the most considerate person he’s ever met. He might feel something for said flatmate. Right now, he’s in a deadlock with said flatmate’s brother, who just so happens to be the British Government.

Good Lord, he’s going to really have to act. If Harry thinks there’s something wrong with his life, she’ll make a lot of noise about it. His father will know. John does not want to see his father. Hasn’t for a good long time, now.

John realizes that he’s been staring at his mobile for some time, now, because his eyes burn from staying open for so long. It begins to ring again, and this time, dread rockets through him.

“Hello?”

“John! Glad you picked up. Ah… Sherlock may have gotten himself neck deep again.”

“On my way.” John swiftly abandons his meal and pulls his loafers and jacket on. He runs to the bathroom and collects the medical kit he got while he was finishing his degree and riffles through it to make sure Sherlock hasn’t gone experimenting with any of it’s components. His phone vibrates with a location he knows well.

In record time, John gets a cab and manages to find himself at the police station. He walks in and throws a nod at the lady manning the front desk, who keeps looking at him like he doesn’t belong here. He goes straight to the back, where Lestrade’s office and (coincidentally, the shouting) is.

The shouters are Sally and Sherlock and Anderson and Lestrade, all of which are caught up in an argument about the best way to… the fuck? What hostages? And why would Sherlock even still be here, if he clearly has a case? Oh. Sally’s managed to handcuff him to her. Well, this looks fun.

“Oi!” John barks. The sudden realization that he is, indeed, in the room is enough to make all four alphas stop and look at him.

“Hostages?”

“Should be treated with caution! Sherlock turning this into his own personal game is not caution. It’s homicide.” Sally barks.

“It is not!” Sherlock says, offended.

“Is too! When you solve cases with someone else’s life at stake, they wind up dead!” Anderson chimes in.

“Not all of them! Remember the strip club owner?”

“The one who wound up maimed?”

“He wound up maimed because he didn’t listen. It’s not my fault his daughter was held hostage and it’s not my fault he had to do the most explosive action available and run to her!”

“That was his daughter!”

“Who was perfectly calm and in relatively little danger until he lost it!”

“You deduced the man with the gun as being unable to pull the trigger!” Sherlock and Sally are back in each other’s faces.

“Yes. I lied. The point was to make a very trigger happy man lose control of the kid. Thank you, by the way, for being so uptight about it after and making him have a panic attack on top of it!” Sherlock snarls at him.

“We’re getting off topic. One guy? Doesn’t negate the whole.”

“I’m not responsible for other people’s inability to think straight.” Sherlock says.

“I think you’re doing it on purpose,” Sally ventures. Sherlock smiles sweetly.

“Then you and Anderson would have been the first ones to go, idiot.” Sherlock holds up his now freed wrist.

“Next time you decide that handcuffing me to you is a good idea, do remember to pay attention. John? We have a case.” Sherlock abruptly sweeps by Lestrade, a pink phone in his hand and John at his side. He’ll see how good this criminal is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, please.


	19. Two Omegas Walked Into a Bar...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn't actually happen like it says on the tin, but the men did meet.

Apparently, this criminal is very good, because Sherlock says “I am on fire!” and he almost seems normal when he says it and NOTHING Sherlock says makes him sound normal. John thinks he’s does it on purpose. It’s kind of funny to imagine him running through a list of responses to see which one will put people off the most before he actually says anything.

Apparently, Sherlock doesn’t actually give a shit more than John thought, because the five omegas endangered do not appear to weigh a thing to Sherlock. They are very heavy to John, though. Sherlock’s told him it’s his biology and that he should do his best to ignore it. It pisses him off, starting a period of silence between the two- the first of its kind. John kicks it off to a start by taking a walk. There, when his facial expression and body language is safe from close scrutiny (he does not doubt that Mycroft watches, though) he begins to think.

On reflection, it’s not as if John is surprised- Sherlock is a narcissist, after all. He didn’t make that bet with John because John needed help. He made it because there was something about John that Sherlock could use. Everything Sherlock has done so far that’s helped John has been beneficial to the detective.

Why wait for John to figure out how to expand the world he lives in- to slog through prejudice views to get paperwork and navigate an alpha system to get a degree- when it would go so much faster to help him? Sherlock, after all, lives so fast that nothing is in focus around him. Why go through the stagnation of John finding his feet with the media when it would go so much better by smoothing over the rough places?

Then, there’s Mycroft, who’s oddly generous with John, initial attempts at control aside. How convenient that John was released from prison on good behavior when he had one of the highest number of fights in the prison? Only Marcus had more. Interesting how that was all chalked up to an upset hierarchy, in which John had to keep reinserting himself with every change he went through.

It’s not that John has never questioned the conveniences in his life- the lawsuit he was expecting from the gym manager never showed up. His interview with the warden went surprisingly well, when all he’s ever gotten from the man is contempt and disgust. His initial meeting with Nathaniel was a private one. The press has been docile- they’ve held back from Baker Street just enough to stymie the feeling of claustrophobia John gets every time he’s in the spotlight. It never shows, but the Holmes brothers would have seen it loud and clear. He has yet to be mugged. Sherlock seemed to know just what to do when yesterday’s little problem presented itself. He’s thought about the conveniences- noticed them, decided them odd- but every problem he faces shoves them a little farther away.

His life is too smooth- too coincidental. As he once heard Sherlock say, the universe is rarely so lazy. He lives with a genius and is semi-stalked by the genius’ brother. It does not surprise him that his life appears so manipulated. He chides himself for letting it get this far and getting so comfortable with the illusion that Sherlock has helped John just to help. There is no alpha on the planet that will do that. Abnormal high-functioning sociopath or no, Sherlock and Mycroft cannot be expected to be any different.

This is his life now, though, and there’s no turning back. Now it’s time to face the reality and to think back- way back- to figure out just how far the Holmes have reached into his life. Then he needs to come up with a plan.

The first thing that went his way was the early release, so it’s probable that Sherlock probably heard about John sometime after he went to prison- a man so accustomed to getting results would not wait eight years for a single omega. Though John supposes he was really only fit to deal with the world for the last year and a half he spent behind bars. The rest was spent rehabilitating one part of him or another. Come to think of it, Mike is probably the one to bring his case to Sherlock. After all, it seems like it’d be a challenge to get the ex of Nathaniel Drake out of prison.

Then there was the paperwork. Sherlock had it all ready for him- neat and tidy. John should have questioned it, but at that point he was wary of everything Sherlock did and said. The paperwork for the program did not register as extra odd. Thinking back, though, when had Sherlock figured out that John intended to finish his degree without ever broaching the subject? Sherlock is meticulous when it comes to deducing, but John doubts he would have been able to tell that particular fact. If Sherlock’s involvement in his release is real, though, he probably knew that John was working towards it in prison, so the deduction would have been easy.

Let’s not forget about the program John was in between the school one and his release- enough to feed and clothe him and oddly easy to get into. If John has learned anything, it’s that nothing is easy for him because not only is he an infertile and an omega, but his body is the wrong shape to be attractive, so he’s often regarded by those who see him on the street as the Hunchback of the omega populace. John still has the card that says he’s an Infertile and eligible to an amount of money to support himself if he cannot work for it. It’s something one keeps for life if ever one should fall.

The manager never did file a lawsuit. Even though John took careful evidence of their fight and stashed it somewhere safe, the fight was never mentioned by the manager or he or Marcus again. John’s been back to the gym and back to the bag and back to fighting Marcus several times and, though he’s seen the manager, he’s never received so much as a glare, much less an order to leave. John knows that this is what they bet on but the alpha is way too assured of his glory and purpose for that much inaction.

Then there’s the invitation. Mycroft did not try to control John’s every move. Yes, he loaned him a suit (which was later just given, point blank) and the ride, but John expected far more controlling behavior than that, specifically since both Holmes knew that the Drake family would be there. Yet, somehow, Mycroft managed to leave him alone on the one night he would not have handled being deduced or controlled or even approached. John bets both balls that Mycroft knew Nathaniel was alive.

Then, lastly, there’s yesterday with the cramps and the stomach aches and the ineffectual medicine and somehow, despite never having taking care of an omega before (or so John’s told) Sherlock knew exactly what to do. He knew exactly how to act. Informed of the problem, he knew the solution. For a man who’s a narcissist and a social retard, that’s a lot of work.

The overall moral of the story, John supposes as his feat tap dully down the cement sidewalk and the sun sets, is don’t be so fucking blind. The universe will fuck you up if you are.

What to do about it, though? He can’t leave. His has options. They simply aren’t good. He could go to a boarding house, which are too strict and don’t take Infertiles, anyway. A flat of his own is possible, provided John takes the necessary about of hours at the prison to pay for such a thing. However, that will be broken into at the earliest possibility and John will never sleep a content night again. He could find another roommate, but no one wants him but the one he has and, besides, if it’s not an alpha, he still at a high risk of being kidnapped and force-bonded or maybe just force-bonded, no kidnapping needed.

All in all, his chances, as they have been from the get-go, are slim to none. He’ll have to wait it out as it is. In the meantime, though, he’ll keep a closer eye on how smooth his life is and figure out how to talk his way out of Harry’s frankly ridiculous John-is-not-doing-okay radar.

As the tesco comes into view, John realizes that he forgot his wallet and, reaching around in his pants, realizes he has a couple of notes on him. Good. He’s got a sweet tooth. John goes in quickly and collects what he needs- candy. In no time, he’s back outside the store and walking home, mind satisfied that it’s done all it can today.

Then his world goes dark.

…

When he wakes up, his head hurts and it hurts badly. The cramps are back and ripping through his abdomen, so John knows that it’s been sometime since he was last conscious. His hands are tied with rope in front of him. John keeps his eyes closed as he listens. There’s the gentle hum of a well-made air conditioner. The air is close but not suffocating. He rocks irregularly for a bit before the rocking ceases entirely. The vibrations John hadn’t noticed until now cease to move him.

“I know you’re awake, Johnny.” He must be in a car. A nice car, judging by the leather.

John opens his eyes and sits up, taking stock of the oh-so-warm interior. The windows are tinted- he can’t see out of them. He focuses on the immaculate figure across from him, emanating the same bitter scent that he does. He doesn’t know what he looks like- it’s utterly dark.

“I’ve been meaning to meet you for a long time, Johnny.” The man say as he leans forwards and runs his fingers through John’s hair. John lets him, because he knows exactly who this person is. Besides, there are worse things he could do.

“You’ve nice hair,  you know.” John says nothing.

“Of course you know. It’s your hair.” He keeps petting it, and John is struck with the knowledge that this man is deeply ill.

“Yesterday, I was standing at my window, looking out of it at nothing and everything, or so it seemed, and I realized that I’m happy. Every other week, I have to spend at least one day in bed because I’ve got cramps ripping through me like a pre-heat malfunction. No one loves me or holds me or helps me when I need it. No one knows me anymore like my alpha did and I realized I‘m happy. The whole world hates me and I’m happy because no one manipulates me anymore. They don’t bother. They want to play with the new puppets, not untangle the strings of old ones.

“Then, I felt a bit bad, because you are so clearly mired in other people’s control. I think it’s killing you. And so, I thought to myself ‘wouldn’t it be nice to have someone like Johnny around? Wouldn’t it be grand to be wanted by someone who hates to want and free that someone?’ I asked myself whether or not Johnny would want me, and I said, ‘of course he would, because Johnny’s afraid of what he’ll do if he wants another alpha. Johnny’s afraid of losing himself to another man’s hands again.’

“So I countered with ‘yeah, but who cares about you? Johnny never wrote back’, which was followed by ‘I never made sure he read the letters in the first place’. That was answered with ‘You’re going to break yourself on this’ to which I said ‘let’s see, then’. So now here I am sitting in a car with you, Johnny, and wondering whether or not you’ll wreck me. I’ve let it get quite easy, I’m afraid. I do so hate to be afraid, love.

“Tell me, are you going to wreck me?” John is aware of the identity of his captor, and he knows that anything but the absolute truth will get him killed. He has no idea what this person has been doing, but he’s willing to bet that the man behind the pink phone is also the man sitting across from him. John pulls back to look him in the face.

“I don’t know, Jack.”

 


	20. Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes that there's something wrong.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep again. He wakes up on a park bench. For a moment, he just stares at the stars, thinking about Jack. The letters (though he did not know at the time what they were) had come a few years after his incarceration. He’s heard nurses talking about them (he was a regular enough visitor that they seemed to forget he was there, half the time). They didn’t go into detail, but, according to John’s timeline of events, the letters fit.

Sherlock has ample reason to hide them from John, anyways. If he realized he was being led along like this as little as two weeks ago, he would have walked out and never come back. Whatever value Sherlock saw in him would go as well. It’s reason enough to lie. Now he’s so deeply enmired with his own problems that moving now would be the end of him. He wonders if Sherlock was obvious on purpose- planned for this, maybe.

John takes a minute to process his headache. Good lord, whatever Jack drugged him with was strong. The cold air is nice though. He considers calling Marcus and just as quickly shuts the idea down. It’s so typical of him. Have a rough time? Call Marcus. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had planned HIS release, too.

John takes his time, zoning in and out as he tries to get himself into a state of calm that won’t be shaken by Sherlock’s genius deductions. When his headache fades, he realizes how tired he is. He glances up at a half moon. It’s after one in the morning.

John rises from his seat and tugs his jacket close around him. He woke up cold, so he hadn’t noticed it until it was time to move. His limbs feel heavy and sluggish as he takes one step after another. He feels his pockets. He has his wallet. He knows what park he’s in- he and Marcus came here, once. He knows there’s a train station in walking distance.

It’s only when he gets there that he realizes that not only did the trains turn in an hour or so ago, but that his phone is dead. John exits the subway station and begins to walk. He grew up in this city. He knows it by heart.

…

Three hours and forty five minutes after John’s departure, something in Sherlock’s mind told him to pay attention- to leave his mind palace and the mystery of Moriarty and think about John. John, who caught his eye long after he had lost the media’s. John, who Mike pointed out at the right time. (Sherlock doubts this was unintentional. The universe is rarely so lazy.) John, who harbours a dose of realism devoid of embellishment, and may be keeping his distance for exactly this reason. John, whose temper should have settled into it’s colder second phase ninety six minutes ago.

Almost without thinking about it, Sherlock stands up, pulls his outer garments on, and steps out into the street. John has disappeared. Sherlock must find him. The streets are empty- it’s cold outside. Sherlock moves his legs faster, hoping to warm them up. After a while, he turns his  head as he walks, suddenly aware that someone is waiting for him. He turns around and faces whoever is behind him.

Well, he can be quiet when he wants to be.

Moriarty is standing behind him. He is dressed as immaculately as he was last time. He smiles a bit, his hands in the pockets of his suit. The manner in which he does it is awkward, as though he isn’t used to this kind of interaction.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says.

“Hmm… Hi.” He says, drawing out the hum and taking on an almost shy smile to the end.

“Where is John?” There is no doubt that he is the reason John is now one hundred and twenty seven minutes past the time he was supposed to come back.

“Oh, busy.” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. The cold is starting to freeze his eyelashes together.

“Well, I should say tired.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. He’ll deal with this later. The faint trail of John’s scent leads him in and out of the Tesco. Then it disappears. Moriarty is still with him. He must find John.

“You know… you won’t find him like that. In fact, you won’t find him at all if you don’t talk to me.” Sherlock casts him a baleful look. Jim gives that shy smile again. Where would Jim leave him? Is he still wherever the omega took him to or is he at a drop off point right now? Would he be drugged heavily? Is he just sleeping or is he dead?

“Let me tell you a story.” Jim goes on, voice flippant as Sherlock stands a few blocks from the Tesco, flipping through the prime places for a drop off point, then trying to decide which ones Moriarty would go to. There’s hundreds of them. He’d know, because he’s got an entire room in his mind palace filled with places where bodies disappear.

“Once upon a time, there was a prince, and he rescued a pauper.” Who’s to say John’s even with Moriarty at all? The man is as smart as he is.

“He promised the pauper the world. The pauper, who was suspicious, declined, saying he’d rather this life than that one.” Moriarty, Sherlock’s deduced, likes to make things personal.

“So the prince set out to prove it. The first day, he sang the sweetest of serenades like a little robin.” So who is the target, really? John or Sherlock? Only one of them is it, and the other is there to facilitate an avenue of cunning previously blocked from Jim.

“At the end of one day and one night, the pauper declined, citing that singing is by no means a judge of character. So the next day, a thousand drawings of grand bridges and beautiful architecture was sent to the pauper alongside everyday things like weeds and fishwives.” The question, Sherlock thinks, is who Moriarty was watching first.

“Again, the same thing happened. So the prince, whose two greatest, most lovely talents had been denied, began to write. It was sloppy and messy, painfully true. It wasn’t something meant to be shared. He wrote and wrote- short stories, poems, the verses of songs to be- until the quill went dull in his hand.” The letters were around the time that Sherlock began piecing together a plan to release John. So who was he watching? John or Sherlock? John, who would have been with him thick and thin were it not for a single switch in circumstance? Or is it Sherlock, who has a kind of freedom Moriarty will never possess?

“Then, upon reading imperfection, the pauper accepted. This gave a strange and ignored ache in the prince’s chest.” Focus. Worry about the rest later. Where would he put John?

“The prince went for a walk on the evening of their wedding. He wandered past the beautiful perfection of the palace gardens and into the wild wood, which accepted him without question. He did not have to pour out music or drawings or books.” The words of Moriarty sink in. Of course. FOREST. PERFECTION. What park did John go to?

The only one Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to be at. The one he went to with Marcus. He’s been ignoring the spark of jealousy he’s chemically wired to feel for the longest time. If there was ever a way to get the both of them, it’d be that park. He sets off, the words of Moriarty’s story rattling around in his brain.

“It made him so happy he died.” An obvious gesture at what happens to omegas when alphas die. Or vise versa. Sherlock picks up his pace. He knows, now, that he’s being followed. He knows that one of them is going to get attacked, to see what happens when the other shatters. What’s the fastest way to the park?

The street he is on will reach a dead end in an hour at this pace. If his memory is correct- and it is- the place obstructing it is a gym. A few years ago, the derelict building next to it was deemed unstable and the lot was cleared. The extra space was bought by the center and turned in a swimming pool.

Briefly, Sherlock recognizes that Moriarty’s disappearance is a bad thing- if he is not here, then he is elsewhere. If he is elsewhere, then he is pulling invisible strings. An hour is plenty enough time to come with something dire. Then again, if Moriarty is as smart as Sherlock things he is, then a few minutes is enough time. That much has passed already. Besides, right now, he trusts no one.

…

John is cold- very cold. His shoulders shake. His hands and feet are numb. He hasn’t the money to call a cab. He hasn’t the humility to call an alpha. He hasn’t the memory to recall Mike’s number.

Up ahead, he sees what looks like his gym. Once again, he thanks whoever the fuck gave him the practicality gene and his own dumb luck as he pulls open the door. He’s here often enough that he doesn't bother to check in. He just nods at the beta.

“Evening, Clarice.”

“Hey John. Damn, honey, you look frozen.”

“Yeah. Bad night.” John detours to walk up to the desk.

“I got jumped, so I don’t have my wallet.”

“Yeah yeah never mind the wallet. There’s still coffee. You stayin’ the night, then? I can call you a cab.”

“Na. No cab. There’s no guarantee that anyone’s at the flat.” Clarice passes him a styrofoam cup of coffee. John just gradles it in frozen hands as he leans against the counter. She bustles around him and away from him, looking for the good kind of cup (the ones that need a cardboard grip because the heat leaks better and lasts longer, besides) and the liquid creamer and whatever else she thinks John should have. He’s been bringing her the occasional gift and always a friendly greeting since he could afford either.

“Damn, what were you doin’ out this late in the evenin’? Clarice, originally an american, has that urban southern habit of dropping her ‘ts, combined with the faintest over enunciation of her ‘rs and the barely heard ‘hs. It’s hardly apparent, what with the amount of time she’s lived in England.

“Ah… had a row with my flatmate. Took a walk. Shit hit the fan.” Clarice cocks her eyebrow.

“Are you sure you’re not going home because you don’t know he’s there?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be here if it was any other way.”

“Goddamn, John. What am I gonna do with ya?”

“Let me sleep in peace, woman.” John jokes, taking another drink of his coffee. Clarice rolls her eyes. John has a strong wish to turn the conversation away from himself before Clarice can ask what the fight was about. He’s told the beta that his roommate was odd, but nothing else. He can just imagine how that conversation would go:

(So what did you fight about? Oh, nothing. He just happens to be a narcissist who doesn’t care about the victims involved with his case and oh? Did I mention that he and his creepy ass brother have been manipulating my life the entire time? No? Well they have! Tada!)

“So how’s the family?” Clarice Gale is married to Jacob Gale, a beta computer programmer turned electrician after he was let go, and their kid is Thomas Gale, straight A omega kid, taking classes a couple grades above his. John learned the first day he broke through the awkward barrier between he and Clarice that her son’s at the top of his class. He’ll walk the stage a year early.

“Thomas is all right- took his PSAT. We’ll get his scores back in a few months. Jacob may or may not have a programming job on the horizon.”

“That’s good.” Just as John’s about to ask another question, his jaw yawns wide. God, he’s tired.

“Mm. I’ll wake you if there’s anyone that comes in.” John smiles.

“Thanks, love. G’night.” John wanders back into the locker rooms. As usual, he listens at the girl’s locker room before pushing open the door to the boys. In his last check of the evening, he steps outside to appraise the pool. Aquamarine water throws imitations of auroras across the walls and the echoey ceiling.

It’s then that he sees something he shouldn’t have.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... life happened, so updates won't come regularly and (probably) not as often.


	21. Mind Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tail end of the pool scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who left me comments and kudos. I made sure to get this done this week.

“You know, I did expect a bit less than you gave, Sherlock.” Moriarty says as he stands behind the detective. His eyes, though, are on John.

“Of course, the difference wasn’t great. A little more screaming. A little more blood… Enough to incriminate you.” He finishes with a light tone to his voice.

“But driving away Johnny here, now that was a stroke of genius.” A giggle is attached to the end of that one. Sherlock’s mind is moving faster and faster, but he doesn’t have a solution. He never does when he needs it the most.

_Tick tock, Sherlock. There all gonna die because of you._

_What do you know? He asks himself, going back to the beginning._

_Name: Jim (not Jack, it’s an alias) Moriarty_

_Occupation: Unknown_

_Gender: Male_

_Second Gender: Omega_

_I.Q. Range: High. Very, very high._

_Strengths: masterminding, riddles, mysteries._

_Weaknesses: people. empathy_

_Behavioral habits: controlled chaos; deliberate and precise, prone to thickening the plot. Taunting._

_Extra: mental illness (type: unknown), possible drug habit (type: unknown; 67% certainty)_

Sherlock doesn’t zero in on the weaknesses ( _not this time, boy. Not every blow needs to hit the weakest point_ ). He looks at the whole thing. He’s being happy and ecstatic on purpose. ( _Controlled chaos is his specialty. Like the Joker_ ). But he’s not here because he planned this. ( _He only likes to show only one facet; keep them guessing) Wrong. He just likes to keep YOU guessing._

He smells bitter. He smells like John ( _John who’s suffering because you’re taking too long)_. He’s grieving. Maybe he doesn’t want to, but he’s hit rock bottom, and it looks like he can’t get up off it (bet he gets cramps. Bet he gets them all the time. You know he’s starting to hurt too, or he would be reacting a bit more to John’s pain. There’s no avoiding it because it’s biological. John would give anything to beat his biology, and he’s just a doctor trying to live for himself instead of someone else. This is a master criminal. Everything rides on beating biology. _Turn around, Sherlock. Say something to him. Make him keep talking_. Sherlock turns.

“Maybe.” He smirks at Jim, like he knows that the other omega knows that Sherlock cares about John.

“Oh, that’s good, Sherlock, that’s real good.” ( _Eyes are glazed over. He hasn’t long. Wrap it up, Sherlock, don’t let it draw too long. It’s like spades. Make your bet. Don’t let them die._ )

“You know what’s interesting?” Sherlock begins to move, smooth as a panther, eyes wide in the dark, mind settled. It’s never good when he gets that look on his face.

“You’ve been writing John for years, waiting to make your move. It’s only now that you’ve made your move. Are you looking to pick up a new henchman?” Sherlock’s nose pulls up just a bit. It’s not enough to twist it in the semi-dark pool, but dramatic all the same with the shadows. Jim opens his mouth to respond.

His cell rings. Moriarty’s pale face gets a flash of mortification on it.

“Do you mind if I answer that?”

“Oh, no, take your time.” Sherlock says, semi sarcastically.

“Hello? Wait. Say that again, and know that if you have what I want, I will make you rich. If you don’t, though, I will make you into shoes.” The phone clicks off and disappears, Moriarty looks at the three of them: John, Sebastian, and Sherlock.

“Well, boys, wrong day to die. Ciao. Let’s go, ‘Bastian.” The two of them disappear. Sherlock steps forwards quickly and claps hands around John’s shoulders.

“Are you alright?” It’s a dumb question, but it’s easy; something John can answer, even when his mind is pain addled. He carefully, but quickly leads John back through the locker rooms, out into the hall, through the main gym, and out into the reception area.

“My god! Who are you and how did you get in here?” The receptionist says, hand on her phone. ( _Police or ambulance? Police._ )

“I’m his roommate, never mind how I got in here. Don’t get in the way, he doesn’t have long.” John’s head is bowed, sweat on his brow in the cool night. His jaw is gritted closed, muscles working to keep it there. His shoulders are heaving as he waves a disarming hand at the woman.

“‘S fine, Clarice.”

“The hell it is!” The beta emerges from behind the desk and directs Sherlock to lay John down on the mats the two just passed. The omega is settled on his side, breathing in and out in a very controlled manner.

“Shit, John. You always get yourself into the worst situations.” That’s all John hears. The rest of it is a blur. He doesn’t know who all is moving. He doesn't know how many people are there.

Watery noise lights his head up like a firecracker. Light doesn’t seem to filter in at all. The world and everything in it is all of a sudden way to close and very, very far away. A river rushes in his ears before he falls into its dark waters.

…

He wakes up in his own bed. God, his head hurts something awful. He coughs, but the move is aborted. His throat’s dryer than the damn moon right now and his lungs feel about as airless. His nostrils expand and retract. Slowly, he pulls himself up and onto his side.

He pauses there for a moment, just breathing. When he feels like he can take the change in focus, he directs his gaze to the door- closed. He can feel the sweats he’s been changed into. Who did that? He’ll have to find out. He won’t be mad, though. Logically, if one passes out and will be asleep for more than a couple hours, it’s polite to make sure they aren’t sleeping in anything that’s going to be uncomfortable.

He successfully manages to sit up in the dark room and just sits for a moment, feeling lightheaded and off kilter. It takes him ten minutes to stand, and another fifteen to get to the damn door. Once he’s there, though, it gets easier, because he’s used to moving about. He gets to the stairs and descends them slowly and silently, as per routine.

He can hear voices in the livingroom. It sounds like Mycroft is here. Dammit. He didn’t want to deal with the elder Holmes this morning. Whatever. Mycroft can wait. He’s getting tea.

John ambles down stairs, and the quiet voices stop. Two heads swivel towards him. A mouth opens. John holds up a hand.

“Not now.” He gets to the kitchen and boils water in a pot, rather than the kettle. No screaming today. Not until he’s feels like dealing with it. Fifteen minutes later, John is staring at his cup, willing the tea to spread faster. He’s shoved a granola bar into his pajama pants pocket, but his throat’s so dry that he’ll not eat it just yet.

It takes him five more minutes to get the first sip. Twenty to finish it. Ten minutes after that to make it to the shower and an hour to get through to brushing his teeth and dragging a brush through his long and wavy hair. He needs a haircut. His hair brushes his shoulders. He pulls it back into a ponytail at the back of his head.

In the mirror he catches sight of his ears. The piercings in his lobes have no earrings in them, but he can’t help but remember when they were filled in with diamonds or, sometimes, tiny rubies. As much as he hates to admit it, he misses Nathaniel badly.

He misses when they were able to eat breakfast and Nathaniel would listen to him talk about whatever he had learned. Back then, John’s mouth could move a thousand miles a minute. He never once stuttered, either- it used to be dangerous, when he still lived with his father. Before everything went south, John had somehow been dropped in paradise.

He’s under no illusions that such a thing would be available to him still- even if Nathaniel tried to give him that, tried to restore what they once had- John had tried to commit murder. He had brought shame to the Drake clan. What was going on never came to court, but everyone fucking knew about it. It’s an irredeemable sin to bring to light any bad behavior, especially on the part of the heir apparent. He can’t help but want it, though.

He and Nathaniel are still bonded. They are still connected. John sighs and looks down. As shameful as it would be to return, it’s fucking ridiculous to dwell upon what he cannot have and does not really want. He looks at his stomach.

Roughly eight years ago, he had a baby. He still misses it. Even if it never was born. Even if it pained him more than anything else. Even if he never got over his miscarriage. Even if it was the start of the end.

_Don’t pity yourself. Nathaniel is an old problem and he will keep. You have other fish to fry._

John turns away and unlocks the bathroom door. He steps out into the hallway and reminds himself not to get caught up. If he lets it happen, he will never get to what he needs to happen. He’ll forget. He won’t let himself forget, right now.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next move in Moriarty's game.

They didn’t think he knew about the letters, but when you’re a nurse/ doctor stuck in a prison and you aren’t allowed to even socialize with inmates too much, the only thing you can do is gossip. Some of the talk was in John’s hearing while he was supposed to be unconscious, so yeah.

John stands at the window, watching the odd solitary walker make their way down the alley bisecting their building and the next one over. His thumbs are shoved in his pockets while his mind tick tick ticks away.

“What all has he done?” He says to Sherlock. Mycroft is (thankfully) absent at the moment.

“Various murders, most of which pertain to one or both of our histories. A few thefts, here and there. Most of them are just reminders, to let me and, I suppose, you, know that he’s still out there.” Sherlock says in a monotone voice.

“Yeah, I bet he did. So tell me, did he start writing me before or after you noticed my existence?” John pins Sherlock with a hard blue gaze; if Sherlock lies, this time around, John will know.

“After.”

“Go figure.” John takes the last dregs of his tea in his mouth and swallows quickly. It provides no comfort. He doesn’t want it. John seems to jerk to life. He strides to the kitchen and deposits his cup in the sink. The rest of his morning dishes join it as he spends the five minutes he needs to erase all trace of himself.

“Late?”

“Not quite.” John pulls on his coat (the one with the patches. He really should get something warmer.) and steps into his shoes. He pockets all the little things he always has on him and steps out into the cold. He’s headed to Ivory.

A car picks him up and takes him from the train station to his former prison. Great grey walls rise above his head, covering him in shadow as he rides through the main stone doors. John departs from the car. He’s not really here because he wants to be, but it’s far easier for him to think through problems when he’s spent most of the day lost in work.

The white hallways of the medical wing greets him as he walks down the left side, towards his office. He’s done a few shifts here, so far. He has the time to get caught up on the paperwork, too. Lord knows when that will happen again.

He sits down at his desk and begins to flick through the pages, recalling the fight he was there to witness on his first shift, and the twenty one stitches needed to set the wounds to healing. That was a four person thing. John nearly stepped in himself.

He puts pen to paper and begins to give his account of what happened after the fight. Which inmates he saw and in what order, along with their gender. He gets lost in remembering the procedures and the order. He gets lost in its simplicity.

“Morning, Johnny!” A voice shatters his concentration. He takes a moment as the surprise zaps him and fades away in the same quarter breath. He raises his eyes only. He holds the gaze of the overseer for a minute before raising his head entirely.

“Good morning.” He lifts his pen away from the paperwork to avoid errant marks.

“Settling in well?”

“Well enough.” John tacks on a wane, but polite, smile. He hates being called Johnny by anyone but his sister. He can feel a knot twisting under the skin on the back of his neck. Good lord, this day is off to a royally screwed start.

“Ah, good!” Suddenly John realizes that if he doesn’t move, he’ll get cornered. He moves out from behind the desk and holds his hand out for a shake.

“How are you, sir?”

“Fine! Fine, love.” John’s discomfort increases as the alpha fails to let go of his hand.

“It’s John, sir.” Jebediah Stein was fair enough as a warden, but John’s not sure where they stand now. It seems the lines have grown a bit blurrier since he left. Innerly, John sighs. Now he’s going to have to correct him of that notion.

“Right, right. Tell me, how’s your week been?” John looks him dead in the eye with his coldest glare.

“Fine.” The hand is not released. John pulls. Mr. Stein finally relinquishes John’s callused limb in favor of glancing around his office.

“You’ve not done much to make it yours.” John shrugs.

“I’m never in here long enough.” At that, Mr. Stein looks at him, like he’s assessing. Oh, god, John’s seen that look.

“I’m always here if you need me.” Every favor must be returned, John thinks to himself.

“Of course, sir. I have to get back to my paperwork, though. It’s been long enough since these incidents. He gestured to the stack on his desk. The warden brightens.

“Well, good morning, then.” He makes his way back out of the office. John shuts it behind him and settles down with the pen again. He wonders if he’ll have a great deal of trouble with the warden. 

On the one hand, he really would like to just succeed- no tricks, no shortcuts, no lies, no help- for once in his life. On the other, he doubts his life is going to last very much longer. He might be doing paperwork, but he’s not dumb enough to think that last night ended with the dawn. There is still the end of the game to play out.

…

“Yeah? How did you find him?” Harry asks. She doesn’t believe for a second that John is just “rooming” with Sherlock Holmes, for all he doesn’t smell like anything but himself. They’re sitting in a bakery, confections and sweet bread, drinks and chatter drifting around them. It’s late afternoon and chilly where they sit. John’s got a cup of coffee clutched between his thick fingers.

Harry has one, too. They’ve been here long enough for Harry to finish her bagel.

“He found me- I was at Barts.”

“I’ve seen pictures of him,” Harry hits him with, “What’s an alpha like that running around with you for?” it’s not said unkindly. It’s not said as though John isn’t good enough. They both know, though, that the answer lies with Sherlock. 

“Don’t know, but I haven’t seen anything worrisome.” John says. He doesn’t tell her about the pool or the cramps or the fact that Nathaniel has been making appearances. He doesn’t tell her about Mycroft’s tendency to stalk or Sherlock’s tendency to manipulate and lie. He doesn’t tell her about his own tendencies to cook for Sherlock or about his growing dread.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Not that your word actually counts at the moment. History and all.” Harry says. He’s always valued her truth, but right now he just wants to be left alone. 

“How’s the family?”

“Same and changed. Mum’s still dead, dad’s still drunk, but our uncle has tried to get into touch with me.”

“Which uncle?”

“Right… I don’t think you ever met him. Drunk as dad was, he knew his brother was a bit too handsy for anyone’s liking. Name’s... Bart! Bart Hamish Watson.” She says, like she’s found a particularly satisfying piece of treasure.

“Any reason why I should have to meet him now?” 

“Maybe. I think he’s going to raise a stink about your old marriage contract. Repossession and all that.” Ah, Repossession: in terms of omegas, it’s a series of clauses in any kind of contract related to the transferring of the possession of an omega from one family/ person to another(s). As he recalls, there was a pretty week one. Week for the Drakes, that is.

It didn’t cover John’s particular history, what with (attempted) murder and jail time and Infertility. He can’t see why his uncle would want him. He’s independant, educated, well mannered (mostly) and far too used to being free. He doesn’t smell attractive. He’s useless as a husband, a butler/maid, or even a whore. His uncle wouldn’t be able to control him because he’s nearly classless. He’s too broad in the shoulders, anyways. John shrugs.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” John says. He takes another drink of the coffee- he’s feeling tired, today. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out. He has two texts.

9:34 a.m.

How are you feeling? -MH

2:01 p.m.

Up for a case? -SH

2:02 p.m.

God, yes.

Four minutes later, he’s promised to keep in contact with Harry and exchanged hugs with her. Then he’s gone, flagging a cab and giving the address. 

Maybe one of Sherlock’s murders will help. As he’s born through the London streets, he pulls out a couple of pain pills and downs the rest of his coffee with them. He can feel his stomach beginning to twist, but he’ll not be invalidated by it on top of everything else.

The cab lets him out at his destination. The building is desiccated and ravaged by a recent fire.

John breathes quietly for a moment, just concentrating on his self control. He can’t help but remember, though.

..

_ He woke to the smell of smoke. It wafted underneath the closed door. The acrid, heady scent of it was enough to rouse John from his slumber. Nathaniel wasn’t there. He’d been doing that less and less often, what with business trips and the guarantee that no one was going to try and steal his omega from him. _

_ The silver band glinted on John’s finger as he pulled himself out of bed and, on skinny legs, made it to the door. He laid a hand less than a centimeter from it. He could feel no heat. He does the same with the knob but, assured that he wouldn’t burn, winds up opening the door and stepping out into the hall. _

_ He turned to the right, making his way down the hall to the stairs. Thankfully, it’s away from the smell of smoke. He felt dizzy- he did that a lot, in those days- so he had to grip the handrail as he tumbled and tripped, a step at a time, down the first and second flights. _

_ The ground floor welcomed him. The heat was stronger there, the smoke heavier. It’s only once his visibility was denied that John remembered that smoke floats. He knelt- ah, good, he feels better on his hands and knees- and crawled along the wall, keeping one hand against the textured paper. _

_ When he came to the door he was looking for, he reached up and opened it with a bit of difficulty. Nathaniel was a tall man, and this was an alpha’s house, so the door handles were up a bit too high. _

_ John stumbled through it and kept crawling until he could see again. As he stood up and started to run, coughs wracked a skinny chest. Wheezes forced their way out of his mouth as he turned down familiar halls and took familiar shortcuts until he stumbled through a side door and into a garden. _

_ The muscles in his thighs burned as he kept going. His sense of direction was misconstrued, so he often ran into generally pointed plants that scratched at him and his pajamas. It was only about ten minutes, but it felt like a lifetime for John to get into hearing range of great sirens. _

_ He stumbled out of the garden by a little gate and ran up to a fireman, tugging on his sleeve. Though his hair was dirty and his face was sooty, the fireman recognized the ring on John’s finger and called off the search for the missing Mr. Drake. _

_ As for John, his chest still hurt, even after they hooked him up to an oxygen mask and set him down in the back of an ambulance. Even after they sent an omega on call for such a case to sit with him, John still could not calm down. They patched up his cuts and cleaned the soot from around his eyes and mouth. The omega wrapped her arms around him and kept him calm, but it hardly helped. _

_ That was a tuesday evening. Wednesday morning, Nathaniel arrived at the hospital John was deposited in and checked him over. He was still gentle, in those days. It was before the hitting had started in earnest. _

_ John thinks that this is the last time Nathaniel ever made his world right again. _

…

John stairs at the gutted building and realizes that this must be Moriarty trying to catch his attention.  Might as well see what he has to say , John thinks as Sherlock raises a wool and leather appendage. 

Lord knows I’ll hear it eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know what's getting updated next, but I'm working on it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took for fucking ever.

There is no body inside, but there is semblance enough here. John’s head begins to buzz as he looks around. God, he’s accurate. John turns his head as he walks inside, quickly taking stock of the scene. He’s trying to get the shock that he can’t really stop out of his system before anyone says something.

The fire wasn’t meant to compromise the integrity of the building, Sherlock says. He seems to be waiting for John to make his move. The omega follows one of the firefighters through the house and up to the bedroom in the back on the second floor (placement is spot on). On the wall of the bedroom, where the flames didn’t reach, there is writing.

“Happy Anniversary, Johnny!” is written in pink, with a winking smiley face just under it. What anniversary? Why would- oh. His anniversary. John reflects that he’s spent the better part of eight years intentionally forgetting that today is the anniversary of when he was married. Well, Jack probably knows that.

Fire didn’t touch this room. John suddenly thinks he knows where to look. He walks to the bathroom. It looks nothing like Nathaniel’s and his did, all those years ago. It doesn't matter, though. John is here, now. He’s barely aware of Sherlock’s presence and Lestrade’s warning as he steps past the old and scratched frame.

“Has this been checked?”

“No, we were waiting for you.” Lestrade says, worry deep in his eyes. Fire never touched here. John’s betting that they didn’t look well enough. He carefully flicks open the doors of the cabinets under the sink, revealing a severed head.

“Not well enough,” John says as he crouches down. He leaves room for Lestrade to join him.

“Is that...?” the officer trails off, but John knows what he was going to say.

“It’s wax.” Sherlock says behind them. They know what it means, though.

“You’ll tell him?” John asks. He’s no fool. If Nathaniel dies at this point in time, John’s not going to make it. The bond that was once something close to love is no weaker; it’s merely made of hate and dislike, now. Fucking bonds.

“Yeah.” Lestrade stands up and goes to call his team. John stands too and starts back towards the firefighter. There’s no murder here. The only reason they even came is because of John’s name on the wall. Sherlock follows him down the stairs, analyzing everything.

…

“So you’re now openly stalked?” Marcus says. he’s been busy of late. John’s guessing that he’s found himself an omega who won’t take bullshit. They’re far and few between, but if one looks hard enough, they’re there.

“Yep.” Marcus lights up a cigarette. The sterile, acrid smell of them doesn’t bother John. He’s been smelling it long enough.

“Those things will kill you.” He comments. Marcus pulls one eye open and flips him off at the same time.

“So will everything else,” He says in an exhale of smoke that dances and twists as it dies. They’re back in the habit of being outside. These past weeks have made scarce room to make time together. It’s nice. And uncomplicated, a voice whispers in the back of John’s mind.

“John?” Marcus asks. Here it comes, John thinks.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t look too good.” it’s an understatement. John’s life has had a heavy toll on him.

“I know.”

“Think Harry would take you?”

“Yeah, she would.” But he’s not going to do it. They both know that. He’s not going to run. Not now, not ever.

“Have you thought about getting a therapist?” He says. John raises an eyebrow. Marcus shrugs.

“It’s that confidentiality thing.” John shrugs. He could, but he’d not trust anyone not in his own head, law or no. The law’s been fucking him over for a long time. His cellphone beeps. John pulls it out.

9:32 a.m.

Can you come to the Yard? -GL

9:33 a.m.

Why? -JW

9:33 a.m.

Went to warn Nathaniel. He’s dead. They’re gonna send the order to arrest you soon enough.

9:33 a.m.

Shit.

John lowers the phone as dread washes through him. He could wait, and they’d arrest him publically. Sherlock would throw a fit, Mycroft would have to…

Why is he worried about them? They’ll do what they always do. If he goes in now, he can probably avoid all the hype about his being arrested. That, and it’s probably on news channels or about to be. He looks at his phone. As much as he’d like to, he cannot do this alone.

9:34 a.m.

Sherlock? -JW

He gets no answer. He must still be in his mind palace. He could call, but Sherlock never answers. It’s just not his thing.

9:34 a.m.

I’m about to get arrested.

John glances at Marcus, who fell silent as soon as he realized there was something wrong.

“Do you mind taking me to Scotland Yard?” he says. This is going to suck really, really badly.

…

His stomach starts to shift. God, he’s screwed. Lestrade processed him before he got here. He looked so guilty when he took his phone, too. He looked like locking John up was killing him. John stares at the bars of his holding cell. Then he looks down at his hands. He has no more than three hours before the cramps set in for real. He doubts he’ll get more than one, though. Three’s just the record. He sighs, shoulders riding up slightly.

This is a bit like last time, in that he didn’t even fight it. Stupid, John. This different from last time, because Nathaniel is actually dead, now. He wonders when they’ll send him to a hospital. He wonders if he’ll die famously enough to be a martyr. He wonders if anyone will really care about the death of John the man rather than John the omega or John the doctor.

He remembers when the ring finger of his left hand was marked with the tinct of a ring. He remembers when he gave a fuck about a hunk of metal. He really wishes he didn’t.

…

It’s late in the evening when Sherlock blinks open his eyes. He sits up. The flat is still empty. That’s odd. John was only going to hang out with Marcus. He should have arrived back hours ago. He should have gone to bed and not woken up until the next day. They’re not desperate for anything right now (not even cleaning, believe it or not) so he didn’t go to the grocery store.

Sherlock reaches for his phone. Well, shit. The first text is from John. Well, at some point, he was in jail. Great. The second’s from Lestrade. So’s the third and fourth.

In the space of a day, Nathaniel has been killed, John has been arrested as suspect number one, taken ill while in jail, and sent to a hospital. The superintendent is asking to see Sherlock, and Sally is pro “John did it”. Great. Sherlock quickly walks to his bedroom and changes his clothing. In less than five minutes, he’s out of the flat and on the phone while hailing a cab.

He arrives at the hospital in a flurry of dark mood and long coat. When he gets to John’s floor, he can see an officer outside the room from down the hallway. It’s Donovan. Shit.

“Hold it, Sherlock.” She says, stopping him by placing herself in front of John’s room. Sherlock gives her a look so cold she knows she’ll dream of it tonight.

“There’s another officer in there. You’ll get yourself arrested at this rate.” This gives him pause, because Sally Donovan has never once, in there long and spiteful history, helped him. She has always been the naysayer- the one who made him doubt, the embodiment of the voice in his head telling him that he’s not good enough. Yet, now, she’s telling the absolute truth.

He acts accordingly, and slams a mask of neutrality over his features and waits for his heart to calm before he opens the door so quietly, you’d think he was Mycroft. As Sally said, there’s another officer in here with Lestrade. He’s of higher rank and knows it, too. He seems to be studying John and writing a report on him at the same time. Sherlock knows that he doesn’t like this strange man near the omega. This is his John- his doctor, his friend- on the bed and he let it happen. No foreign alpha’s going to make him do anything now.

“Good evening.” Sherlock says coldly enough. The man looks up.

“Sherlock Holmes?” The detective nods and shuts the door behind him. This is going to be tricky.


	24. Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets to the hospital.

“Where were you at two a.m. this morning?” The cop immediately starts. It’s a breach in etiquette; one does not just start throwing questions out. The goal here is to strip Sherlock up; make him say something he shouldn’t.

“In my home.” This much is true; Sherlock decides he won’t tell them about the zoning out that he does whenever he wanders around his mind palace. He was awake until eight; after John had left, then he took a long nap. No mind palace. No oddities. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Were you asleep at this time?” These rapid fire questions suit the man throwing them. he’s aggressive; so alpha power that it’s not even funny.

“No. I was practicing the violin.” He was practicing until one, and again at four. The remaining three hours were spent wandering around. No one wanders around for three hours. He’ll just adjust his activities, the better to manipulate this man with.

“Was John Watson there?” He slept hard and heavy; Sherlock would have gone out to look for him if he wasn’t.

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was sleeping.”

“Where?” The question implies that if John wasn’t in Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock is somehow less of an alpha. According to the officer, Sherlock should be able to dominate John. he should overpower the man. The fact that he’s so independently defiant without Sherlock’s obvious backing (nevermind what the detective gets up to when no one’s looking) takes away from his clearly dominant appearance.

“In his bedroom.” The fast pace of the questions would throw anyone but Sherlock off, had he been lying. As it is, Sherlock’s calm, decidedly Mycroftian blandness is not swayed by the somewhat antagonistic tone of voice.

“Is it possible that he could have not been there?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because he was dreaming; I could smell him from the living room.” He was actually having nightmares, but that would be giving away a weakness. John Watson should appear to sleep easy at night; no stress and definitely no nightmares.

“Where’s John’s room in relation to the living room?” Sherlock knows that he doesn’t have to say anything beyond “John and I were both in the house”, but he’s going to let the little weasel get away with as much as possible. He’s going to let this fucker back himself into a corner before he stops talking.

“The flat is situated on the second floor. The living room is on the main floor. A flight of stairs leads to a short hallway; off that is John’s room.” It’s a bit risky to say this, but Sherlock isn’t ready to turn the tables, yet.

“So it’s possible that he could leave and you not know about it.”

“No. He was dreaming. I could smell him the whole time.”

“Can you prove that?”

“No.”

“Say he did leave. How would he do it?” Sherlock pauses.

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that.” He’s at liberty to say as much as he damn well wants to, it’s just time to take control of this dance.

“Mr. Watson’s alibi depends on it.”

“No, it doesn’t. His alibi depends on whether or not I can back him up when he says he was asleep at the time of the murder. I already have. Since John is now registered with a hospital due to…” here, Sherlock takes a moment to flick up the end of John’s chart. he doesn’t need to; it’s just for effects. “... severe abdominal pains, you can’t even take him back to prison OR cuff him to the bed, as said pains are connected to having his pseudo-mate suddenly die.”

“What’s to stop me from cuffing him?” Sherlock pokes at the shiny metal connecting John to his bed.

“John spent eight years in prison for a false claim of murder; being handcuffed again, as he was at the time of his arrest and for the succeeding eight years, can trigger, at the very least, stronger symptoms and, at the most, death.” The concise speech has the officer ready to go blue in the face. Lestrade is standing out of eyesight of the other man. He’s got one of the smuggest looks he’s ever had from Sherlock saying anything. Sherlock also picks up something like pride in his near-smile.

“He’s a criminal. I am well within my right to keep him in cuffs.”

“Actually, you aren’t. Being hospitalized has minimized his opportunities for violence, escape, or any other conduct not associated with recovering. Not only that, but you cannot prove that John is the one who murdered Nathaniel, providing that he has, indeed, been murdered. you don’t have solid proof; only a similar crime committed almost nine years ago. If you keep him cuffed, I will make sure everyone knows about it.”

The bland recital traps the police officer between a rock and a hard place. Does he go ahead, and risk the heat the press (never mind the alpha) will surely invoke? Or does he release John Watson before he wakes up, and, by that action, give way to what is clearly a weaker alpha AND the omega who’s been putting a lot of heat on traditional ways of life? When it’s all said and done, there’s very little that will be different from this one small decision, aside from making the police department look bad. The officer unlocks the cuffs, removing them one at a time and stows them.

Sherlock nods.

“What else did you want to ask?” On the bed, John’s pale, sickly face is utterly expressionless in his drugged sleep.

“No.”

“The please leave. John needs to rest.” Again the officer looks as though he’ll fight it. Lestrade lays a hand on his arm. A silent glance between the two, and then the alpha is rounding on Sherlock again.

“One thing. That’s all it takes.” That’s all it takes to secure a legitimate arrest, rather than just detain John. That’s all it takes to bring his world crashing down like the house of cards it is.

“Of course.”

“You’ve gotten better at that.” Lestrade says into the silence. Sherlock is busy typing away on his mobile.

“Not now, Lestrade. I need to think.” Lestrade shrugs.

“You know I can’t keep you informed, right?”

“I don’t need you to. I just need to buy some time to think.” Sherlock settles into the uncomfortable plastic chair. His descent seems to be more of a graceful fall than anything. As his back hits the chair, his hands touch under his chin and his legs cross in one smooth motion.

He settles into the tenuous calm that lets him stay aware and begins to think. There’s too many variables. He falls back on an old deducing technique he used when he first started going to crime scenes.

The first is the Big question- the one that must be answered. The variable x in any equation. Who killed Nathaniel Drake? (Answer: Unknown)

The next step is to break it down; compile a list of possible answers. Who would kill Nathaniel Drake?

Answer: almost anyone, really. Everyone had a good reason for doing it. His disastrous marriage is enough to make him a disgrace to his family. Add Leslie Drake and associates to the list. The activist groups would. If John were to cave and go back to Nathaniel, then everything they’d work for would go down the drain. It would take forever to regain the momentum they have right now.

Moving on to other possibilities. Of course, John would, but John was with Sherlock last night. Sherlock himself didn’t pay anyone, and he doubts that Mycroft would, but Mycroft hides many things behind that mask of his. Back to John, though. He has few friends; Harry (maybe) and Marcus are the only ones ragey enough to kill. (Stamford is too soft; he’d have to fall under someone else’s umbrella.) Sherlock wouldn’t put it beyond either of them to plan to take Nathaniel out. Other than Sherlock (and he sure as hell didn’t put a hit out for Nathaniel) he really doesn’t have anyone else who personally cares for him. Sherlock will have to see if there’s anyone who’s romantically attached. The warden seems a bit too attached for Sherlock’s liking. Then there’s the ever complicating question of Moriarty.

Step three: eliminate people.

Harry… she produced a phone for John with both her name and the name of her ex inscribed on the back. He’s willing to bet that the ex is also an alpha. But he’s been keeping track of her. She and John have a history of drunk (on her part) nights and painful mornings. If she were to suddenly lose control… well, even with the loosely attached state their relationship is in now, she could come in handy to the Drake line, given her opportunity to deepe that relationship with John. Still. she hasn’t been anywhere near the Drakes. Sherlock crosses her from the list.

Marcus is too conscious of John’s very perilous state to be so… blatant, Sherlock supposes. Besides, he doubtlessly knows about the effects of Nathaniel’s death. He’d have waited. Like all of John’s associates (including his former professors) Sherlock’s been watching. Marcus was not in position.

That leaves the big groups: The Drakes, the activists, Moriarty and Mycroft. The Drakes are at a crossroads. Yes, they could have killed him off earlier (far before it would have been a problem) but the old, traditional family would see Nathaniel prove himself with the very thing that had bested him before killing off. It seems a little early, but there are other things that could cost Nathaniel his life. He could have been at odds over how to go about John Watson. Despite his despicable behavior, he did care. Judging by his behavior and Sherlock’s own deductions, he cared a lot. He may have wanted to leave John to his life and his pain on his own. This would have certainly put Nathaniel at odds with Leslie and the rest of the Drakes. Leaving John as he is- at a low point but at the same time higher than he’s ever been and progressing- would have been spitting in the face of Drake pride. It could have cost him dearly, so they are still on his list.

The activists know better than anyone that hospitalization and possible death are the inevitable outcomes of killing off a mate, though Sherlock won’t discount a vigilante’s careful planning for this fiasco. The activists could have done it anyways knowing of the effects because if John dies, is permanently injured or weakened, or really has any visible effects, he’s a martyr, and causes thrive off martyrdom. So activists are still on the list. Sherlock will have to assemble a comprehensive list of them. Some aren’t extreme enough. Some are too caring of their spokesman. Sherlock adds a “random vigilante” category to his list of people that could have murdered Nathaniel Drake.

Moriarty could be aiming to hurt John, or Sherlock, or both. There’s no way to cross him off the list. Not with so little evidence. He may have been bluffing when he said he didn’t need to see the crime scene.

Mycroft. Sherlock knows his brother; knows how he operates. The same thing can be said of the other way around. Mycroft knows what Sherlock wants; what he’s beginning to feel he needs, despite his attempts to stay the somewhat destructive pace and stay his steps down the path his mind has dragged his body down. If Mycroft thought that eliminating Nathaniel from the equation was the best way to clear the distance between Sherlock and John. Almost six months ago, on January the 11th, 2014, John was released. While official records say some bulshit about good behavior, the sole reason John is not still in prison is because Sherlock asked Mycroft to have him released. While Sherlock has never done anything intentionally destructive to John, he hasn’t been at all honest, either. Sherlock is willing to be that if Mycroft thought John could make it through the effects of having a bond cut, he’d kill Nathaniel. No fuss, just death. Sherlock hopes this isn’t the reason. He’ll have to do some serious lying if it is. He can’t cross Mycroft off the list.

Five names out of eight remain on Sherlock’s list: Activists, random vigilantes, Moriarty, and Mycroft. Now, he needs to see the crime scene. The door opens. Sherlock looks up. Oh, good, Mycroft got his message. Anthea has a laptop that cannot be traced in a nondescript laptop back. In it are two things Sherlock desperately needs (barring the laptop): a phone that also won’t be traced, and what crime scene photos are available. Sherlock nods to Anthea, who, after a moment, hands him a cup of coffee. Trust Mycroft to think of everything.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Holmes sends his regards.” Sherlock arches the insides of his eyebrows briefly; a long interpreted expression signifying acceptance without emotion. He opens the laptop and waits for Anthea to leave before reprogramming the camera to replay the last few seconds of footage of him typing and occasionally taking a drink of coffee (it’s turkish and really good). Then he pulls out the crime scene photos and gets to work. he has five options, and needs to eliminate at least three of them, the first of which is Mycroft.

As he types, the machines beep regularly and John’s chest moves up and down faintly. Despite the dire situation of his friend, Sherlock lets a smile steal over his face.

**The game is on.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, mugglecat asked me why John could be charged with murdering Nathaniel twice, when double jeopardy should prevent that. below is an excerpt of a Wikipedia article on the subject. The gist of the excerpt is this: In England, post 2003, double jeopardy can be bypassed if the crime is grievous enough (in that it is punishable by a life sentence, death, or something equally severe).  
> John was charged with the first degree murder of Nathaniel Drake, and was sentenced to a twenty five year prison sentence. the only reason it wasn't more severe is because John was, at the time, fourteen, sick, depressed, and an omega. Mycroft is the only reason why he's out after eight years, anyways. So let me know if anyone's still confused. 
> 
> Post-2003[edit]  
> Following the murder of Stephen Lawrence, the Macpherson Report recommended that the double jeopardy rule should be abrogated in murder cases, and that it should be possible to subject an acquitted murder suspect to a second trial if "fresh and viable" new evidence later came to light. The Law Commission later added its support to this in its report "Double Jeopardy and Prosecution Appeals" (2001). A parallel report into the criminal justice system by Lord Justice Auld, a past Senior Presiding Judge for England and Wales, had also commenced in 1999 and was published as the Auld Report six months after the Law Commission report. It opined that the Law Commission had been unduly cautious by limiting the scope to murder and that "the exceptions should [...] extend to other grave offences punishable with life and/or long terms of imprisonment as Parliament might specify."[30]
> 
> Both the Home Office resident Jack Straw and Leader of the Opposition William Hague favoured this measure.[31] These recommendations were implemented—not uncontroversially at the time—within the Criminal Justice Act 2003,[32][33] and this provision came into force in April 2005.[34] It opened certain serious crimes (including murder, manslaughter, kidnapping, rape, armed robbery, and serious drug crimes) to a retrial, regardless of when committed, with two conditions: the retrial must be approved by the Director of Public Prosecutions, and the Court of Appeal must agree to quash the original acquittal due to "new and compelling evidence".[35] Pressure by Ann Ming, the mother of 1989 murder victim Julie Hogg—whose killer, William Dunlop, was initially acquitted in 1991 and subsequently confessed—also contributed to the demand for legal change.[36][37]
> 
> On 11 September 2006, Dunlop became the first person to be convicted of murder following a prior acquittal for the same crime, in his case his 1991 acquittal of Julie Hogg's murder. Some years later he had confessed to the crime, and was convicted of perjury, but was unable to be retried for the killing itself. The case was re-investigated in early 2005, when the new law came into effect, and his case was referred to the Court of Appeal in November 2005 for permission for a new trial, which was granted.[37][38][39] Dunlop pleaded guilty to murdering Julie Hogg and was sentenced to life imprisonment, with a recommendation he serve no less than 17 years.[40]
> 
> On 13 December 2010, Mark Weston became the first person to be retried and found guilty of murder by a jury (Dunlop having confessed). In 1996 Weston had been acquitted of the murder of Vikki Thompson at Ascott-under-Wychwood on 12 August 1995, but following the discovery in 2009 of compelling new evidence (Thompson's blood on Weston's boots) he was arrested and tried for a second time. He was sentenced to life imprisonment, to serve a minimum of 13 years.[41]


	25. Autopsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets into the crime scene and gains an ally.

John won’t be out of the hospital for a few more days, which gives Sherlock leave to do what he has to do. First he heads home, to grab a few things and do a little touch up.

The first thing he does is sneak into the crime scene right after he watches Donovan leave. When he sees the body, he crosses Mycroft off the list. His brother is OCD. He would never let something that would be so high in his personal list (not that he’ll ever admit to having one) be so messy.

There’s blood everywhere: on the walls, spattered across the sofa and the coffee table, dotting the dirty windows. The room’s neutral colors have all been ruined. Not only that, but there are also organs everywhere, too. The intestinal tract has been coiled messily on the coffee table. There’s a lung on each end cushion of the couch. Teeth line the window. the head has been nailed to the mantle, the body symmetrically laid in front of it with each limb in the same position as its twin. Both main pieces of the corpse bisect the room.

With a start, Sherlock realizes that his culprit had a really good eye for proportions, otherwise it wouldn’t be slightly crooked with respect to the big stone fireplace it’s sitting above, but perfectly even with respect to the room’s boundaries. Just like that, the crime falls into place.

Sherlock picks up the tempo in the cacophony. Then he really starts to notice. He glances at the furniture. There are two couches, one TV (mounted on the wall with the door), a long coffee table, and two end tables to a couch. Book shelves line the double windowed wall to his left, a coat rack, shoe basket, and fifth end table line the wall to his right.

The person who lives here did not commit this crime, Sherlock thinks, because everything in the center of the room has been shifted an inch to the right, so that it is even with the room, while it’s original position had this furniture even with the mantle.

He makes a mental note to scour every database he can find to match this odd mix of symmetrical chaos. Moving on. This flat is a nice one, and its owner has good taste- well dressed, good coat on the rack, next to a fedora. Sherlock thinks he may be trying too much, though, because, based on the books in the book shelf and the one on the nearest end table, this man has his head far too wrapped up in mysteries and fantasy to be one for the suit and tie. On the second shelf from the bottom for both cases: comic books.

So a well dressed geek leaves his flat (how, though, Sherlock will leave undefined. The only thing that matters is that he did.) and then Nathaniel Drake is murdered in it, with body parts artfully removed and arranged on every piece of furniture. The stomach and bladder on on the end cushions that aren’t already occupied. The ears are on two end tables, a real eye on another, a glass eye on the next, and the tongue on the table next to the door. The top of the book shelf on Sherlock’s right has what looks like Nathaniel’s penis, with the balls on the other. The TV has the nose sitting propped up against the wall.

The corpse, naked for the autopsy, hasn’t much left to hide, since most the internal organs have also been strewn about. Sherlock wonders how long it took him to die and then decides his doesn’t care. Nathaniel hurt John. The doctor’s in the hospital right now because of Nathaniel and his murderer.

Sherlock takes all this in in a few moments, before someone recognizes his height (they didn’t recognize anything else. Sherlock got through the officers by straightening his hair and dressing casual) and stomps into the room.

“Sherlock Holmes?” It was spoken like a question, but Sherlock already knows that the man has his answer.

“This is he.”

“You’re not authorized to be here.” Sherlock glances at his attire- typical alpha. Higher than Lestrade.

“May I see your badge?” He says. He takes another glance at the room while the man pulls it out: Dimmock, it reads. This is Lestrade’s boss. Well, that’s not good.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. It’s not charming- not in the least. Sherlock knows Donovan and Anderson have ruined any chance of him acting his way out of it- but it isn’t going to make him angry. Sherlock cannot be detained right now.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“On what grounds?”

“We need to question you.”

“It’s already been done. You cannot arrest me on that alone.”

“You also just snuck into a crime scene.” Sherlock shakes his head.

“I did not.”

“Did, too.”

“Ask Lestrade. I didn’t just weasel around the cop cars.”

“Yeah, and you always look like that.”

“I do sometimes.” The cop makes to grab Sherlock’s hand.

“Let’s go.”

“Oi!” Lestrade says from the doorway. Finally having cottoned on to the fact that Sherlock did show up and everyone missed him, he had come back up here, only to see Sherlock being near manhandled by his boss.

“Lestrade. Move.”

“If you arrest me when I walked right past your officers to no response, then I will have to take legal action.” He’s bluffing. He doesn’t do court, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make Dimmock sweat.

“I’ve seen him like that before, sir.” Lestrade lies. From the doorway, Sherlock can see Donovan coming towards them. God, she's going to ruin it. Or not. She warned Sherlock about the officer in John’s room. She may have averted disaster. Most people don’t go and fight for just any omega, yet she feels no attraction to John. She cares, Sherlock decides. Maybe she won’t blow it. He doesn't know, though. It depends on how far John’s hospitalization has tipped the scales.

“Sir?” Her curly brown head pokes into the room. Eyes narrowed and widening as she recognized Sherlock.

“Donovan. Have you seen Holmes like this?” Dimmock demands from where he’s attempting to cuff Sherlock. That’s a cheap party trick, since Sherlock is actually a great lockpick.

“Yeah, about a year ago on an undercover case.” That’s true. There had been an undercover case, and Sherlock had straightened his hair then for a hot minute. Sally wouldn’t have remembered him enough to make the connection now, though. My god, she’s actually bluffing. Dimmock stares at Sherlock’s back for a second and then:

“Get out. Don’t come back.”

“Hmph.” Sherlock says. It’s his only verbal response, except to take a last glance at the room and then stride out quickly. He sees Donovan mouth something and carries on.

An hour later he’s sitting in the passenger seat of her car, slumped so that people won’t connect him and his height. A solid bar of futuristic sunglasses blocks any viewer from seeing his eyes. One would be hard pressed to identify him under the french beret he’s also wearing. Both these things were in the bag he hid before making his way inside.

She takes her time- keying the ignition before pulling out into the street.

“Hospital or flat?”

“Flat. I need you to go to the hospital, though.”

“Why?”

“Because John is in a similar position Nathaniel’s in, and his eyeballs are serving as end table decorations right now.”

“Why can’t you go?”

“Because I’m noticeable.”

“Someone sees me with him, and they think: Sherlock Holmes. If they see you, they think: copper.” Sally nods.

“So basically you want me to aid and abet what is basically you acting criminalistic, which, by the way, is not in my own best interests. Not only that, but I’m supposed to go and babysit a man in a near coma so that you don’t have to worry?” She can feel the eyeroll behind the broad lense.

“Of course not. I don’t want you to do anything that would incriminate you even more than you already are, thank you, and two: you aren’t babysitting. Three, John has a high mortality rate right now- it’s not worry. It’s common sense. Donovan rolls her eyes. Sherlock so cares.

“Say I do this: what then?”

“Then I cross people off my list.”

“Of perpetrators…”

“Now you’re catching on.” Sherlock’s dry near-joke has Donovan almost up in arms, but then she stops. They haven't time for another fight right now.

“Do you even have people on that list or is it vague?” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Of course it’s vague. I can’t just draw conclusions whenever I please. Even you should know that a premature deduction is most certainly wrong.” Sally switches lanes and prepares to turn in silence.

“Fine.” Sherlock nods and stays quiet until they pull up to his flat. the detective gets out and turns back.

“Bring your gun and lots of coffee. I wasn’t joking about the mortality thing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, please.


	26. Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes mind palacing around.

He hacks Leslie Drake’s email from the hospital (from the comfort of his own laptop, thank you). When he can’t find anything he can use right now, he hacks her other email. And her phone, the camera in her car, the camera in the tablet that charges on her vanity, the security cameras in her house, etc. Then he does the same to her one living son, the rest of her close confidants, and Nathaniel himself. Then, he sends it all to Mycroft. It’ll take too long to analyze all this shit.

He goes back to Leslie and watches the recordings of her from several different angles. She cares about Nathaniel. His up and dying should cause grief, and it is certainly there, hidden underneath a layer of tired that she can’t quite conceal. If Leslie did this, she’s not showing it. He crosses her off but adds information to her in his head. She could be manipulated using her grandson's death.

He also adds an “unlikely” tag to the Drakes in general. From what he’s seeing, everyone is grieving.

“So… sociopath does illegal activities five feet away from me, right after saying that he doesn’t want me any more incriminated than I already am.”

“I’m not. All I’m doing is checking my email,” Sherlock says. Sally snorts. It’s the closest Sherlock’s ever gotten to making her laugh. He catalogues it for later use. It’s not that he necessarily cares about making Sally Donovan laugh, it’s that, when one is in the business of manipulation, every tool should be sought after.

“And it’s five feet, nine inches.” Sherlock says after a beat.

“Well how doe-”

“Enough. I need to think.” This goes on for some hours, with Sherlock combing through every option and Sally gaining Frequent Walking Yards in the amount of time she ventures out of the room. Finally, he exits out of everything (presumably. Sally cannot see his screen) and closes the laptop. He adopts the odd, meditative pose she’s seen him in a few times and loses the utter, sharp focus.

Sherlock has not spent this time developing a conclusion- dumb, and mistake ridden. Nasty stuff, early conclusions- no, rather he has already developed every conclusion that he can conceivably work through and meticulously searched for ways to disprove himself. In three out of four categories: activists, his brother, and the Drakes. Now, there is only Moriarty left.

Sherlock closes his eyes and focuses his breathing, quickly locating a drawing room with a magpie on the door, after the tie pin he’d seen Moriarty wear. In his mind, he begins to speak.

…

_“You… are meticulous. You like having things your way, and go through great pains to provide for the fact that you are also spontaneous.” Sherlock steps past the jamb and closes the door behind him, effectively trapping himself in a room where a shadow of a man sits in a great big wingback chair._

_“Do you think so?” the character says. And that’s what he is- just a person Sherlock made up to help him envision the real Moriarty- the one he’s analyzed before and is doing so again._

_“Yes. It bothers you, sometimes, these two warring parts of yourself.” A pawn’s been lifted from a game of chess in mid flow and thrown across the room. Meticulous and random, all at the same time._

_“In fact, I’d say it bothers you a lot. I don’t think you can live without the bother. I think the pain fuels you.”_

_“And why’s that?” the character fiddles with something, but Sherlock doesn’t go near him to find out what- he made this man, after all._

_“Because someone died. Someone you cared about. Someone you shouldn’t be able to live without.” The faint scent of bitter melancholy burns from a candle on the far side of the large drawing room._

_“How would you know? I could have chronic depression.”_

_“But you don’t,”Sherlock counters with, “because you smell too much like John, and John does not have chronic depression. I think it would kill you.” Sherlock looks at the side opposite his character and tries to think about what Moriarty would want._

_“Why John?”_

_“I don’t know. You tell me,” his character says._

_“Maybe you’re jealous- John is both close and distant to the alphas in his life at the same time. I think it wasn’t something you could ever achieve. Not for long. Not at a price you could pay.”_

_“So you think I want him dead?”_

_“No. No, not at all, or it would have been done already. I think you want to see him fall.”_

_“And you?”_

_“I…” and here Sherlock looks away, because he doesn’t want to say it- doesn’t want to acknowledge it for what it is._

_“Don’t chicken out now, love. Game’s getting interesting. What about you?”_

_“I care. I care far too much, now.” And Sherlock’s right. What had started as the quest for a companion has morphed along the way over the safe bounds of “assistant”, shot past “respected” and straight into “friend”. Sherlock knows he still wants more, but it’s going to have to wait. It’ll be a long time, with the way things are going._

_“So I want to see John fall, and then I want you to go with him. What are you going to do about it?” Sherlock looks at his hands. He could stop this. He could stop it all. He could put a noose around the neck of the game and let it fall._

_It’d be a short drop and a sudden stop. Yes. Yes, that’s a plan._

…

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at Sally.

“I know what to do.”

 


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock walks and waits for something to happen. With Sally watching over John, there’s nothing stopping him from doing what he has to do. The wind blows his straightened hair. It doesn’t tug this jacket like it does his coat.

His hands, shoved into his pockets to protect his fingers from the cold, are filled with a knife in one hand, and a rag in the other. He hopes he’s right about this, because, if not, he’s so screwed.

In a few minutes, he senses someone’s attention on him, but doesn’t stop. Instead, he hunches his shoulders up against the cold, adjusts his sunglasses against the light, and continues on to Bart’s, which is a cab ride away from John’s hospital.

As he traverses the corridors, he briefly thinks about the lie he’ll tell Molly when he gets down to the morgue. She’s not here. Good. Very good. Less hassle like that.

Sherlock sits down and logs onto the computer (he guessed her password half a hear ago) and scans the body count in the freezers across the room. Oh. Number twenty one has been marked for his use. Great.

He pulls on a pair of gloves and keys the code for the door. Wrapping both hands around the handle, he pulls, fully expecting the frigid puff of escaping air. With the door open, he fits his fingers underneath the slab and pulls, body sliding out with heavy efficiency.

He gets the cart and eases the body onto it. The squeak of the old thing is loud as he transfers the body to the autopsy table and then closes the fridge and returns the cart to its post by the door.

He unzips the body bag to reveal a bulbous nose and a heavy, square face. Mr. Allen Ricknum was not one to be messed with, Sherlock deduces as he slides the zipper down further.

As he gets the tools he needs for an experiment, the door to the morgue opens and shuts behind him. It is not Molly’s footsteps. No, this tread belongs to a man Sherlock has only ever seen once and never heard of otherwise. Sherlock swivels his head, eyes meeting the blonde alpha just inside the door.

“Afternoon.” The alpha says, almost cordially. Sherlock offers a sweet smile.

“It’s been a while, Moran.”

…

John gains sudden consciousness in a manner so painful to his body that he seizes, reduced to doing nothing for several seconds as a nurse bustles in and resettles him.

“You don’t do anything halfway, do you?” Sally Donovan is sitting there, drinking what John bets is her twentieth cup of coffee.

“Suppose not.” John says dryly, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. He listens to the beep of his heart monitor, mentally weighing the merits of asking after Sherlock. He closes and opens his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh, no reason.” God, he hates that, how people sometimes won’t tell him things because he “doesn’t need to know”.

“Cut the crap, Sally.” The detective looks at John, skin paled and weight lost over the past few days.

“He’s had an idea. Went to prove it, I think.” John huffs out a laugh.

“I think. That’s funny. You do realize that I know when you’re lying or avoiding something, right?” Sally shrugs and takes a drink of coffee. Mm. John could use coffee. Like, twelve cups of it, laced with an energy drink. Right. Focus. Not time for that now.

“Sally.”

“I’m not telling you. It isn’t even for the usual reasons.” John carefully pushes himself up onto one emaciated elbow and glares daggers at his companion.

“Where. Is. Sherlock.”

“I don’t know.” He can see he’s not going to win. Very well, he’ll just have to settle with what he has. Call him crazy, but he does not think Sherlock would just up and leave. Not unless he was on a chase, in which case, John may miss him entirely and not see him for days. He’ll be stuck wondering until he gets a call from Lestrade. Even the yarders rarely know where he is.

So, Sherlock is on a case.

Presumably, it’s John’s case, because if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t be banging his head up against a brick wall trying to get information out of Sally. He looks closely at Sally, who has the look of a sleepless, highly caffeinated individual. One doesn’t ingest that much coffee unless it’s a replacement for food (which isn’t in her M.O.) or they’re not going to sleep for a long time.

The only reason Sally wouldn’t be sleeping for a long time is she’s either on a case (again, presumably John’s case, because she’s here, rather than at Nathaniel’s murder scene or a morgue or whatever). If Sherlock and Sally are on John’s case, then they’re working together. If they’re working together, they would actually be doing separate parts of the same thing, since the two can’t stand each other.

Not to mention the fact that Sally has her gun with her. John’s willing to bet that she’s been cast as the guard dog. John shifts his weight, suddenly aware of how heavy his eyes are. He presses back a yawn and focuses more intently on Sally’s face. She’s watching him somewhat warily, as though she thinks he’ll try and cause problems.

“I’m not staying here,” John says, pushing himself up further and trying to rise without yanking the needle in his arm.

“I’d like to see you leave.” She’s right, too. John glances at the door. He’s not sure he could make it that far, let alone to Sherlock. Nevermind the fact that John is suspect number one. Speaking of which.

“So you don’t think I did it?” Sally tosses him a dry look and then takes another drink of coffee. John waits, eyes larger in the dark circles surrounding them. After five minutes of staring with barely any blinks, he wins.

“Fine.” She throws her hands up in mock surrender.

“No, I don’t think you did it. I’ve seen you tromping around after Sherlock for months, now. The man’s too attached to you to just let all this happen. If you were going to kill someone, you wouldn’t be the number one suspect for it.” John nods. Sure enough. If anyone knows how to kill a man and not get caught, it’s Sherlock.

John carefully eases himself back down. At the corners of his existence is the pain he felt when Nathaniel died. It pushes at him. Not hard- not now- but he knows it’s only being held back by medication. The moment it wears off, he’ll be right back here.

John closes his eyes. Maybe he should sleep a bit longer. Physically, he’s unable to even make the doorway. Emotionally, he’s got a noose around his neck. Legally, he’s a fucking criminal, and the law is only stayed by the need to keep him alive and healthy, lest consequences be wrought. There is nothing he can do right now.

He zones to the sound of his own breathing and to the quiet tempo of the heart monitor. Distantly, he notices that the tips of his fingers are cold, despite him slipping them back under the covers. As though that has opened the floodgates, he realizes that all of him is cold. He starts to tug the blankets up and to move around and get himself more comfortable, but it’s not working. He tries again and at a different angle, but, again, it’s no use.

He can’t bring himself to open his eyes. Not when his arm suddenly begins to hurt. Not when he hears an odd snckt. Not when hands go to work against his skin. He only notices when he’s not cold anymore. His breathing calms again.

Then, there’s a series of high, rapid beeping. He tries to open his eyes and unclog his ears. He only just hears Sally.

“On my way.”

“John,” she says, but the doctor can no more open his eyes than he can raise his body. A sigh whooshes out above him, then a lump moves under his head before drawing away.

“Sorry to do this to you, but Sherlock’s gotten himself into a fucking mess, now.” Then she’s gone, and all without telling John what he really wants to know: Where is Sherlock?

…

Moriarty slides his hand across his phone and narrows his eyes at the text. Oh, it is _on_.

 


	28. Humpty Dumpty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing that Sherlock did.

“It’s not going to work out the way you think it will.” The alpha a few yards away says. Sherlock doesn’t even glance at him. He’s watching the street.

“What are you even trying to do?” Sherlock glances at him. Simpleton. As if he’ll just tell him.

“More than likely, he’ll just aim at what you care about.” Sherlock gets up and duct tapes his mouth shut.

“Stop boring me,” He says. He’s sure that this will ultimately put John in more danger than Sherlock can account for in most cases. This, however, is an extraordinary case. The alpha, tied up behind him, glares holes in his back.

Kidnapping isn’t the greatest of tactics or plans, but this is the one that will work. To a certain degree, at least.

…

John opens his eyes some time later to see a nurse checking him over and changing his bag.

“Feeling better?”

“Define better.” John says through a fuzzy mouth. The man chuckles and leaves John to his thoughts. The omega stares at the ceiling and tries to remember. Oh, that’s right. Sally was in here. He was trying to find out where Sherlock is. The nurse chuckles quietly.

“You’re looking good, for now.” The nurse murmurs as he leaves. John stares up at the ceiling. What had Sally said? Why had she left? John moves his head. Why did she leave this lumpy thing? John moves the hand not attached to an IV and slides his fingers underneath the pillow. His skin meets cold metal. Sally left her gun. With John. In a hospital bed. Well, that’s not good.

The door opens, then, and John quickly tightens his hand around the gift.

…

In retrospect, this is a horrible plan. There’s so many things that could go wrong- that will go wrong, given his adversary. Really, he’s almost ashamed of the half-assed quality. Still, there was going to be a confrontation today. It was simply a question of how it would go.

Sherlock turns again and glances through his sunglasses at Moran, trussed and immobile, duct taped and blindfolded. (He did that one a bit late).

Sherlock starts to pace. He’s taking too long. He’s not coming. He’s- stop, Sherlock tells himself. Moriarty will come, because Moran is the prize. He’s enacting his own plans, now. Sherlock knew this would happen. Now, all he has to do is wait.

Wait, he does. For how long, the cloudy sky hides from him, and he doesn’t dare check the time and start up another endless cycle of what ifs.

The rattle and clank of the rooftop door opening breaks Sherlock’s silent vigil.

“I didn’t think you capable of that. Nice going, love.” Sherlock casts a baleful eye over James Moriarty. He’s still as irritatingly John-like as he was when Sherlock met him for the first time. Behind him, two goons tug and pull and unconscious John through the doorway, and then leave.

As bad as Sherlock wants to go to the doctor, he doesn’t. It would ruin the plan. Sherlock knows what he’s here to do. He just has to wait for Moriarty. From the dark of the yawning doorway, two sets of footsteps and something else can be heard. Someone, Sherlock silently corrects. Someone being dragged.

The blond head of John comes into view, unconsciously hanging from his neck. Sherlock presses a button on his phone.

…

Out on the street, across every screen, on every monitor, TV, and mobile, the planned programming stops, static seizes across the screens. People are confused, unaware of what it really is. Then everything refocuses, but not on the previous selection. No, it trains instead on a man’s face. This man has been in the newspapers and discussed across talk shows and radio for months, now.

He stares directly at the screen, even as he sits back from turning the camera on.

“Good evening.” He says, deep baritone rolling clearly through speakers and headphones.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. For the past six months, I’ve been living with John Watson, former husband of Nathaniel Drake.

“Due to the investigation I’ve been conducting on Drake’s murder, i have excellent reason to believe that Watson is innocent. However, since I may not get the chance to present that evidence, most of which is known by me and me alone, I have made this video.

“The following is an account of all that should be known. If any alpha watching values the gender, you will not ignore me. You will not turn the screens off. You will not try to debunk what I say here. You will support it. You will do your best to make it stronger.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my note.”

…

“You know, for whatever reason, I thought you were too in love with being what John needs to do anything like this.” Moriarty gestures playfully at Moran. Sherlock does not move his eyes. It’s far too risky.

Instead, he tries to assess Moriarty. He’s excited, no doubt about it, but it also hurts him to see Moran. He’s angry that Sherlock would even have the gall to do this, and intends to make Sherlock pay for it.

Good. Sherlock’s going to take Moriarty with him, if he can. The wind bites into him through his suit jacket, but Sherlock refrains from shivering.

“Why?” He’s never been good with emotions, his own or other’s, so this is the natural progression: why? Why John? Why me? Why would you care? What good does it do you? All these wrapped in one syllable and presented in that neat, explosive package.

Moriarty smiles and buries his fingers in John’s too-long hair.

“Because he did it wrong.” And suddenly, Sherlock can see it all. This alpha behind him, blinded and gagged, is a filler for someone else, someone who died and left a great big hole in Moriarty but instead of bleeding out, Moriarty closed it. John, though, John did not. John did it wrong. John-

“Of course, so did you, to wait for so long.” Yeah, he did. he should have done something about John before he had a use for the doctor. His reason for being here is just… insubstantial. And typical. God, he hates being typical.

He can smell the subtle shift in the scent of John as the doctor draws closer to the surface and out of what land Moriarty sent him to. Sherlock steadies himself mentally and prepares to distract the genius across from him.

“And what’s the right way?”

“To not be so needy, of course. To be better for it, instead of knocking around from alpha to alpha.” Silently, Sherlock reviews John’s file. The one they kept on him while he was in prison, that is. Dozens of fights in increasing frequency marked his initial recovery from all that had happened. Then a sharp drop as he settled into his incarceration. Every time a new inmate came, John fought them.

No, John is not one to knock around. He’s one to knock them out. Sherlock pauses. “Better for it”. Not better for the pain. Not better for the experience or for the work or for the blood, but better for it. Like he’s afraid to name it.

 _Am I?_ asks the character in his head.

 _Now why would I be afraid? You’re at my mercy._ Yes, Sherlock is. But Moriarty smells like John, who’s been worryingly on the fence over his feelings for a while now.

But who would Moriarty be on the fence about? Not Sherlock- too much glee, no dread. No… it would have to be Moran, who Moriarty came to get. Moran, or someone similar. Maybe he’s not afraid of the pain- he lived through it, is living through it now. Maybe he’s afraid of a repeat. Just. Like. John.

“And you’re better?” Moriarty’s eyes narrow. Here goes nothing. And everything.

“You, who claims to be so different, kidnapped John and came to the roof of a hospital just to collect a man who works for you?

“You, who runs a criminal enterprise but can’t help but play with a consulting detective?”

“That’s what you all yourself?”

“The only one in the world,” Sherlock breathes before he lunges forwards, muscles bunching and coiling as he tries to reach Moriarty’s gun before the man can pull it out. He does- barely- and it’s enough to make him let go of John’s collar. The omega slumps, jarring him that much closer to the surface. Not long now.

He and Moriarty tumble away from John’s body. Distantly, Sherlock feels nails down his face, feet in his stomach. All of it is distant, though. His pulse has sped up, heart pumping blood through his chest so quickly he can hear it as he grapples for a hold on Moriarty. Somewhere in his head, a much younger, teenaged Sherlock shouts that John would skin him alive if he caught him doing this to an omega. Sherlock pushes him back in his room and slams the door.

He doesn’t have time for it.

He gets both Moriarty’s wrists in hand and squeezes. As he expected, it triggers an instant freeze. It only lasts a moment, but it’s enough to give Sherlock the advantage needed to flip Moriarty over. Before the man can recover from the feeling of his jaw hitting the asphalt on the top of the building, Sherlock’s got him pinned, both arms twisted savagely behind his back.

Sherlock has a split second thought- John does the same response to the wrist move- too many fights. It speaks to Jim’s inexperience with fighting, dirty or clean.

A peal of laughter comes from the body beneath him. Sherlock turns his head slightly. The goons. They’re back, one holding a now awake John up, and the other aiming a gun at his head. Oh, god.

“Now be a good boy, or Johnnie’s brains get sprayed all over the building’s top.” sherlock lets go of his wrists and stands, stepping away, hands up. He doesn’t want to, but he’ll not lose John. Not when the both of them have made it through the past months.

“Let me tell you a story,” Moriarty says, a bit breathless as he pushes himself to his feet and rubs fingers over his jaw, testing bone and muscle and skin. Sherlock looks between Moriarty and his goons. Not at John- never at John- gives away too much. Though, honestly, Sherlock’s not sure what else there is to give away. He’s here, isn’t he?

“Humpty…” Moriarty retrieves his own gun after tugging his suit jacket straight and prods Sherlock in the back. “Dumpty…” Sherlock walks to the edge of the roof, gun in his back the entire time.

“Sat on a wall.” He feels the gun flip up. Sherlock places a foot on the edge.

“Wait.” Sherlock breathes. His hands are frozen in his gloves. His heart is frozen in his chest. Mycroft was right. He was undisputedly false- caring is not an advantage.

“I suppose.” He says, like the benevolence is killing him. Sherlock removes his foot and takes a step back.

He turns and walks slowly to John, where the omega has been sizing up his opponents, but froze at the first syllable of the rhyme.

“Sherlock,” he breathes. John steps out from the goons- he knows he won’t be shot now. For the first time in a while, John steps past the invisible boundary he himself put in place and wraps his arms around Sherlock. It doesn’t hurt yet- he’s not scared yet. His underrated mind is tick tick ticking through the problem. He doesn’t fear yet, though he has plenty reason. No, the hug is because he’s waiting.

Sherlock returns the gesture in kind.

“This is my coup de gras, John. One of them, anyways,” John’s stomach drops, then. It’s really going to happen. Sherlock might die. He’s not planning to avoid whatever it is Moriarty has up his sleeve. Good god, no.

Sherlock feels the minute stiffening of the sudden cognizance. He steps away and makes to turn. It’s only when one of Moriarty’s goons step over to Moran and the other to reclaim John that the instinct kicks in. John starts to struggle as he slides away from Sherlock’s peripheral.

The detective steps back to the edge, aware that John’s life may or may not rest in his hands. Damned if you don’t, and maybe damned if you do. The noise gets louder as the other alpha- unable to free Moran in the time allotted to him, rushes to help with John. Sherlock steps up onto the ledge.

Quietly, the teenager in the back of his mind crosses his arms and leans against the wall outside John’s room.

 _Did you know that your heart doesn’t beat? It twists_ , he says. His character joins him.

 _Funny how fear stops nothing._ The alpha Sherlock’s kept track of- Marcus, John’s friend, and a better one than he could ever be, lays a hand on teenaged Sherlock’s shoulder. He turns a critical, experienced eye on the detective.

 _Have faith now, or you’ll lose it entirely._ Mycroft, in the back, leans on the first umbrella he ever had.

_Caring is not an advantage._

_It’s not voluntary, either_ , teenaged Sherlock says, petulant and proud. Sherlock takes a deep breath.

He hopes John has faith in him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much left to go, now.


	29. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life after death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKSGIVING UPDATE!!!!!

John stands in front of the big black headstone, utterly still. Trees glint off its polished surface. There is green everywhere, weaving in between the other graves, overrunning the trappings of life as best it’s able.

He’s tired. Not just bodily, either. He’s tired of London, of Mycroft, of activists, of the Drakes. He’s tired of himself, of Harry, of Marcus. Everything and everyone he sees now reminds him that Sherlock is no longer in the land of the living. John’s lost him. They’ve all lost him.

He stands squarely, shoulders strong and even, head up, eyes down. It took him months to get to this state- the one where he doesn’t need someone to watch over him and make sure he doesn’t collapse or try and kill himself. The last one was as warranted as the first, in those first few weeks.

With Sherlock’s note still circling the internet and activists knocking down the doors of every judicial institution in the fucking isles, demanding change, demanding “Justice for John Watson”, as they have dubbed it. The charges over Nathaniel’s murder were dropped. An official apology was released by the Drakes. Doctors trying not to be cast as “Rights Haters” clambering to give their opinions on this or that aspect of John’s health.

He doesn’t really care about them, though. It’s good work the activists are doing, but the tables will inevitably not be evened, merely turned, as things like this are wont to do. John is right to avoid getting involved for that reason alone.

He finds it hard to care about anything, anymore. The grief is still strong, though it seems to have pushed what he was going through over Nathaniel’s death aside and dwarfed it, besides. He’s twenty five, now.

The past year has been fraught with therapy for everything, visits from everyone, medication, relapses, progress, more breakdowns, spiralling holes of depression, painfully hard climbs back to the track, but he did it. Nearly died. Twice. But he did it.

Now, he stands here, a year later, in front a headstone that will never diminish in his mind. He turns to the person to his left. Their eyes meet, and they nod. The two- an alpha and an omega- have known each other for nearly five months now. This man will take John away. He’ll clear out John’s world and replace it with something else, if John can just stay on the track. If he can get the keys to the gate that guards the track.

“Am I clear?” He had a psych eval a week ago. After that, there was a full body physical and a gamut of others that required blood drawing somewhere along the line. He’d sat through it silently. Patiently. Hoping for escape.

“Yes. Congratulations.” The man says it with no excitement in his voice- not in the presence of this dead man in particular. John nods and turns back to the grave.

“A moment more, please.” The man walks away. He’ll wait. Not for long, but, after half a year of watching John claw his way out of this black hole he’s been thrown down, he won’t mind wait.

“Sherlock…” John begins. He steps forwards and lays his hand on the gravestone. After a couple of minutes of quiet conversation, he steps back.

“Thank you,” he finishes. Then he leaves.

“You’ve already packed?” John nods. Everything is settled. That was the last thing. The ride is quiet on the way to the base, the hum of tires on roadway vibrating in John’s chest and filling the silence.

When they arrive, John and his companion walk into the administration building.

“General Sholto,” the clerk greets. John prays to what god is there that he make it through the next months. If he can do that, he’ll be in the clear.

He never thought war would be his savior, but his last one died, and he won’t repeat the experience.

Not now.

Not ever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter guys. A goodbye comment would be cool.


End file.
